Elementary sketches of moral philosophy, delivered at the Royal institution, in the years 1804, 1805, and 1806

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ELEMENTARY SKETCHES

MORAL PHILOSOPHY,

DELIVERED AT

THE ROYAL INSTITUTION,

IN THE YEARS

1804, 1805, and 1806.

BY THE LATE

REV. SYDNEY SMITH, M.A

COL-LIB-ARTS-

NEW YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS.

1850.

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INTRODUCTION.

These Lectures were privately printed, in the hope
that Mr. Sydney Smith's remaining friends would feel
some interest in the occupations of his early years. By
these partial judges they have been very generally ap-
proved. Several eminent men have counseled their
publication ; but their fragmental and elementary state
seemed to forbid it.

The following letter from Lord Jeffrey (written but
three days before his sudden illness, which terminated
fatally) appears to be so decisive of their publication,
that, under the shadow of such authority, and with the
deepest feelings of gratitude to him for the candor and
the affectionate approval shown toward their author,
they are no longer withheld from the public.

" Edinburgh, January 18th, 1850.
" My ever dear Mrs. Smith,

" I can not tell you how grateful I am to you for
having sent me this book ; not merely (or chiefly) as a
proof of your regard, or as a memorial of its loved and
lamented author*, but for the great and unexpected
pleasure I have already derived, and feel sure I shall
continue to derive, from its perusal. Though it came
to me in the middle of my judicial avocations, and when

IV INTRODUCTION,

my infirm health scarcely admitted of any avoidable
application, I have been tempted, in the course of the
last two days, to read more than the half of it ! and find
it so much more original, interesting, and instructive
than I had anticipated, that I can not rest till I have not
merely expressed my thanks to you for the gratification
I have received, but made some amends for the rash
and I fear somewhat ungracious judgment I passed
upon it, after perusing a few passages of the manuscript,
some years ago. I have not recognized any of these
passages in any part of the print I am now reading, and
think I must have been unfortunate in the selection, or
chance, by which I was then directed to them. But,
however that be, I am now satisfied that in what I then
said, / did great and grievous injustice to the merit of
these Lectures, and was quite wrong in dissuading their
publication, or concluding that they would add nothing
to the reputation of the author ; on the contrary, my
firm impression is, that, with few exceptions, they will do
him as much credit as any thing he ever wrote, and pro-
duce, on the whole, a stronger impression of the force
and vivacity of his intellect, as well as a truer and more
engaging view of his character, than most of what the
world has yet seen of his writings. The book seems to
me to be full of good sense, acuteness, and right feeling
— very clearly and pleasingly written — and with such an
admirable mixture of logical intrepidity, with the ab-
sence of all dogmatism, as is rarely met with in the con-
duct of such discussions. Some of the conclusions
may be questionable ; but I do think them generally
just, and never propounded with any thing like arrogance
or in any tone of assumption, and the whole subject
treated with quite as much, either of subtilty or profund
ity, as was compatible with a popular exposition of it.

INTRODUCTION. V

" I retract therefore, peremptorily and firmly, the ad-
vice I formerly gave against the publication of these
discourses ; and earnestly recommend you to lose no
time in letting the public at large have the pleasure and
benefit of their perusal The subject, perhaps, may
prevent them from making any great or immediate sen-
sation ; but I feel that they will excite considerable in-
terest, and command universal respect ; while the pre-
vious circulation of your 100 eleemosynary copies,
among persons who probably include the most authorita-
tive and efficient guides of public taste and opinion now
living, must go far to secure its early and favorable
notice.

" I write this hurriedly, after finishing my legal prepa-
rations for to-morrow, and feel that I shall sleep better
for this disburdening of my conscience. I feel, too, as
if I was secure of your acceptance of this tardy recan-
tation of my former heresies ; and that you will be
pleased, and even perhaps a little proud, of your conver-
tite ! But if not, I can only say that I shall willingly
submit to any penance you can find in your heart to
impose on me. I know enough of that heart of old, not
to be very apprehensive of its severity ; and now good
night, and God bless you ! I am very old, and have
many infirmities ; but I am tenacious of old friendships,
and find much of my present enjoyments in the recol-
lections of the past.

" With all good and kind wishes,
" Ever very gratefully and affectionately yours,

"F. Jeffrey."

NOTE.

These Elementary Lectures, on Moral (or Mental) Philosophy,
were delivered in the Royal Institution in the years 1804-5-6,
before a mixed audience of ladies and gentlemen, upon a subject
very little considered then in this country.

They are scarcely more than an enumeration of those great
men that have originated and treated on this important science,
with a short account of their various opinions, and frequent com-
pilations from their works.

Though Mr. Sydney Smith had had the advantage of a close
attendance, for five years, upon the beautiful lectures delivered by
Mr. Dugald Stewart in the University of Edinburgh, and an
almost daily communication with him, and with that remarkable
man Dr. Thomas Brown, who succeeded Mr. Stewart in the pro-
fessor's chair of Moral Philosophy, yet these Lectures, from the
circumstances under which they were delivered, were necessarily
very superficial ; it being impossible to fix the attention of persons
wholly unaccustomed to such abstruse and difficult subjects, with
any beneficial effect, for the prescribed time of the Lecture.

Some portions of the first course of Lectures were, a few
years after, amplified and embodied in the "Edinburgh Review,"
under the titles of Professional Education,* Female Education,
and Public Schools ; and as he considered what remained could
be of no further use, he destroyed several, and was proceeding to
destroy the whole. An earnest entreaty was made that those
not yet torn up might be spared, and it was granted.

* These subjects were introduced in the Lectures on Memory, on Imag-
ination, and on Association.

Vlll NOTE.

These Lectures then (the first course being rendered very im-
perfect, though from the ninth they are perfect and consecutive)
profess to be nothing more than a popular colloquial sketch of a
very curious and interesting subject, written to be spoken. They
are given in clear language, often illustrated by happy allusions,
by eloquence, and by a playfulness of fancy that was eminently
his own.

Though very far from a learned book, it may prove perhaps
an interesting one ; conveying great truths, and much useful
knowledge, in a less dry and repulsive shape than in a discussion
on Moral Philosophy they are commonly to be found.

CONTENTS,

LECTURE I.

Page
Introductory Lecture 18

LECTURE II.

History of Moral Philosophy 26

LECTURE III.

History of Moral Philosophy. — Part 2. {Imperfect) . . . .42

LECTURE IV.

On the Powers of External Perception. {Imperfect) . . .60

FRAGMENT OF LECTURE V.
On Conception 76

FRAGMENT OF LECTURE VI.
On Memory 83

FRAGMENT OF LECTURE VII.
On Imagination , * 89

X CONTENTS.

FRAGMENT OF LECTURE VIII.

Page
On Reason and Judgment 93

LECTURE IX.

On the Conduct of the Understanding 95

LECTURE X.
On Wit and Humor 112

LECTURE XI.
On Wit and Humor.— Part 2 131

LECTURE XII.
On Taste 147

LECTURE XIII.
On the Beautiful 163

LECTURE XIV.
On the Beautiful.— Part 2 177

LECTURE XV.
On the Beautiful.— Part 3 193

LECTURE XVI.
On the Sublime 208

LECTURE XVII.

On the Faculties of Animals, as compared with those of Men . . 224

LECTURE XVHI.

On the Faculties of Beasts 239

CONTENTS. XI

LECTURE XIX.

Page
On the Conduct of the Understanding. — Part 2 256

LECTURE XX.

On the Active Powers of the Mind 2*73

LECTURE XXI.

On the Evil Affections 288

LECTURE XXII.

On the Benevolent Affections 304

LECTURE XXIII.
On the Passions 320

LECTURE XXIV.
On the Desires 335

LECTURE XXV.

On Surprise, Novelty, and Variety 348

LECTURE XXVI.
On Habit 362

LECTURE XXVII.
On Habit.— Part 2 311

LECTURES.

INTRODUCTORY LECTURE.

By the term Moral Philosophy, is popularly under-
stood ethical philosophy ; or that science which teaches
the duties of life : but Moral Philosophy, properly speak-
ing, is contrasted to natural philosophy ; comprehending
every thing spiritual, as that comprehends every thing
corporeal, and constituting the most difficult and the
most sublime of those two divisions under which all
human knowledge must be arranged.

In this sense, Moral Philosophy is used by Berkeley,
by Hartley, by Hutches on, by Adam Smith, by Hume,
by Reid, and by Stewart. In this sense it is taught in
the Scotch Universities, where alone it is taught in this
island ; and in this sense it comprehends all the intel-
lectual, active, and moral faculties of man ; the laws by
which they are governed ; the limits by which they are
controlled ; and the means by which they may be im-
proved : it aims at discovering, by the accurate analysis
of his spiritual part, the system of action most agreeable
to the intentions of his Maker, and most conducive to
the happiness of man.

There is a word of dire sound and horrible import
which I would fain have kept concealed if I possibly
could ; but as this is not feasible, I shall even meet the
danger at once, and get out of it as well as I can. The
word to which I allude is that very tremendous one of
Metaphysics ; which, in a lecture on Moral Philosophy,
seems likely to produce as much alarm as the cry of fire

14 INTRODUCTORY LECTURE.

in a crowded play-house, when Belvidera is left to weep
by herself, and every one saves himself in the best
manner he can. I must beg my audience, however, to
sit quiet, till they hear what can be said in defense of
Metaphysics, and in the mean time to make use of the
language which the manager would probably adopt on
such an occasion, — I can assure ladies and gentlemen,
there is not the smallest degree of danger.

The term Metaphysics has no sort of relation to its
meaning ; — and various attempts have been made to
substitute a more appropriate word in its place, — hitherto
without success. Psychology, and Pneumatology, are
both candidate expressions for filling this vacancy in our
language ; but though no objections can be stated to
either, they have neither of them fairly got into circula-
tion (even among the few who, by cultivating this
science, have acquired a right to adjust the language in
which it is taught) ; but by whatever name the science
of the human mind is signified, it has precisely the same
foundation in reality that any science conversant with
the properties of matter can have. The existence of
mind is as much a matter of fact as the existence of
matter : it is as true that men remember, as that oxygen
united to carbon makes carbonic acid. I am as sure that
anger, and affection, are principles of the human mind,
as I am, that grubs make cockchafers ; or of any of those
great truths which botanists teach of lettuces and cauli-
flowers. The same patient observation, and the same
caution in inferring, are as necessary for the establish-
ment of truth in this science as in any other : rash
hypothesis misleads as much, modest diligence repays as
well. Whatever has been done for this philosophy has
been done by the inductive method only ; and to that
alone, it must look for all the improvement of which it
is capable. So that those who would cast a ridicule
upon Metaphysics, or the intellectual part of Moral
Philosophy, as if it were vague and indefinite in its
object, must either contend that we have no faculties at
all, and that no general facts are to be observed con-
cerning them, or they must allow to this science an
equal precision with that which any other can claim.

INTRODUCTORY LECTURE. 15

A great deal of unpopularity has been incurred by
this science from the extravagances or absurdities of
those who have been engaged in it. When the mass of
mankind hear that all thought is explained by vibrations
and vibratiuncles of the brain,— that there is no such
thing as a material world,— that what mankind consider
as their arms, and legs, are not arms and legs, but ideas
accompanied with the notion of outness, — that we have
not only no bodies, but no minds ; — that we are nothing,
in short, but currents of reflection and sensation; all
this, I admit, is well calculated to approximate, in' the
public mind, the ideas of lunacy and intellectual philoso-
phy. But if it be fair to argue against a science, from
the bad method in which it is prosecuted, such a mode
of reasoning ought to have influenced mankind centuries
ago to have abandoned all the branches of physics, as
utterly hopeless. I have surely an equal right to rake
up the moldy errors of all the other sciences ;— to
reproach astronomy with its vortices, — chemistry with
its philosopher's stone,— history with its fables,— law
with its cruelty, and ignorance; — and if I were to open
this battery against medicine, I do not know where I
should stop. Zinzis Khan, when he was most crimsoned
with blood, never slaughtered the human race as they
have been slaughtered by rash and erroneous theories of
medicine.

If there be a real foundation for this science, if ob-
servation can do any thing, and has not done all, there
is room for hope, and reason for exertion. The extrava-
gances by which it has been disgraced, ought to warn
us of the difficulty, without leading us to despair. To
say there is no path, because we have often got into the
wrong path, puts an end to all other knowledge as well
as to this.

The truth is, it fares worse with this science than
with many others, because its errors and extravagances
are comprehended by so many. If you tell a man that
the ground on which he stamps is not ground, but an
idea, he naturally enough thinks you mad. If the same
person were told that the planets were rolled about in
whirlpools, or that the moon, as Descartes thought, was

16 INTRODUCTORY LECTURE.

once a sun, — such a person, who would laugh at the
former, might hear these latter opinions advanced, with-
out being struck with their absurdity. Every man is
not necessarily an astronomer, but every man has some
acquaintance with the operations of his own mind ; and
you can not deviate grossly from the truth on these sub-
jects, without incurring his ridicule, and reprehension.
This perhaps is one cause why errors of this nature have
been somewhat unduly magnified.

Skepticism, which is commonly laid to the charge of
this philosophy, may, in the first place, be fairly said to
have done its worst. Bishop Berkeley destroyed this
world in one volume octavo; and nothing remained
after his time, but mind ; which experienced a similar
fate from the hand of Mr. Hume in 1737 ;— so that, with
all the tendency to destroy, there remains nothing left
for destruction : but I would fain ask if there be any
one human being, from the days of Protagoras the
Abderite to this present hour, who was ever for a single
instant a convert to these subtile and ingenious follies ?
Is there any one out of Bedlam who doubts of the exist-
ence of matter ? who doubts of his own personal
identity ? or of his consciousness ? or of the general
credibility of memory ? Men talk on such subjects from
ostentation, or because such wire-drawn speculations are
an agreeable exercise to them ; but they are perpetually
recalled by the necessary business and the inevitable
feelings of life to sound and sober opinions on these sub-
jects. Errors, to be dangerous, must have a great deal
of truth mingled with them ; it is only from this alliance
that they can ever obtain an extensive circulation :
from pure extravagance, and genuine, unmingled false-
hood, the world never has, and never can sustain any
mischief. It is not in our power to believe all that we
please ; our belief is modified and restrained by the
nature of our faculties, and by the constitution of the
objects by which we are surrounded. We may believe
any thing for a moment, but we shall soon be lashed out
of our impertinence, by hard and stubborn realities. A
great philosopher may sit in his study, and deny the
existence of matter ; but if he take a walk in the streets

INTRODUCTORY LECTURE. 17

he must take care to leave his theory behind him. Pyrrho
said there was no such thing as pain ; and he saw no
proof that there were such things as carts, and wagons ;
and he refused to get out of their way : but Pyrrho had,
fortunately for him, three or four stout slaves, who
followed their master, without following his doctrine ;
and whenever they saw one of these ideal machines
approaching, took him up by the arms and legs, and,
without attempting to controvert his arguments, put him
down in a place of safety. If you will build an error
upon some foundation of truth, you may effect your
object ; you may divert a little rivulet from the great
stream of nature, and train it cautiously, and obliquely,
away ; but if you place yourself in the very depth of her
almighty channel, and combat with her eternal streams,
you will be swept off without ruffling the smoothness, or
impeding the vigor, of her course.

With respect to skepticism on subjects of natural and
revealed religion, I can really see no connection between
such species of doubts, and an investigation into the
structure of the human mind. Thus much is true, that
out of a certain number of men who exercise their un-
derstanding vigorously, and the same number who do
not exercise it at all, we shall have many more dissen-
tients to any thing established by evidence, among the
first class, than the second. Among a hundred plough-
men, we should not find one skeptic ; among the same
number of men of very cultivated faculties, we should
probably find some who entertained captious and frivo-
lous doubts against religion ; but then there is no more
probability that this science should produce such men,
than any other science, which compels us to a rigorous
exercise of all the powers of the mind : the objection
seems to be against exercising the faculties altogether,
not against exercising them in this particular manner ;
but surely it is a sad way to cure the excesses of the
human mind, by benumbing it ; and a very narrow view
of the resources of art, to suppose there is no other
remedy for the irregular action of any part, than by its
destruction. I might do here what I have done before
in speaking of the extravagance of some reasoners upon

18 INTRODUCTORY LECTURE.

these subjects,— institute a parallel between the tendency
to religious skepticism, produced by this science, and
many others ; a much wiser and better man than I,
however, shall do it for me. In speaking of the decline
of materialism, Mr. Dugald Stewart says :* " There has
certainly been, since the time of Descartes, a continual,
and, on the whole, a very remarkable approach to the
inductive plan of studying human nature. We may
trace this in the writings even of those who profess to
consider thought merely as an agitation of the brain.
In the writings of Helvetius and of Hume, both of whom,
although they may occasionally have expressed them-
selves in an unguarded manner concerning the nature
of mind, have, in their most useful and practical disquisi-
tions, been prevented, by their own good sense, from
blending any theory with respect to the causes of the
intellectual phenomena with the history of facts, or the
investigation of general laws. The authors who form
the most conspicuous exceptions to this gradual progress,
consist chiefly of men whose errors may be easily ac-
counted for, by the prejudices connected with their
circumscribed habits of observation and inquiry; — of
physiologists, accustomed to attend to that part alone of
the human frame which the knife of the anatomist can
lay open ; — or of chemists, who enter on the analysis of
thought, fresh from the decompositions of the laboratory;
carrying into the theory of mind itself (what Bacon ex-
pressively calls) the smoke and tarnish of the furnace."
But what are we to do ? If the enemies of religion de-
rive subtilty and acuteness from this pursuit, ought not
their own weapons to be turned against them ? and
ought not some to study for defense, if others do for the
purposes of aggression ? When the old anarch Hobbes
came out to destroy the foundations of morals, who en-
tered the lists against him ? Not a man afraid of meta-
physics, not a man who had become skeptical as he had
become learned, but Ralph Cudworth, Doctor of Divinity
— a man who had learned much from reading the errors
of the human mind, and from deep meditation its nature :

* Life of Reid, p. 81. 1802.

INTRODUCTORY LECTURE. 19

who made use of those errors to avoid them, and derived
from that meditation principles too broad and too deep
to be shaken : such a man was gained to the cause of
morality, and religion, by these sciences. These sci-
ences certainly made no infidel of Bishop Warburton,
as Chubb, Morgan, Tindal, and half a dozen others found
to their cost. Tucker, the author of " The Light of
Nature," was no skeptic, Locke was no skeptic, Hartley
was no skeptic, nor was Lord Verulam. Malebranche
and Arnauld were both of them exceedingly pious men.
We none of us can believe that Dr. Paley has exercised
his mind upon intellectual philosophy in vain. The
fruits of it in him, are sound sense delivered so perspic-
uously that a man may profit by it, and a child may
comprehend it : solid decision, not anticipated by inso-
lence, but earned by fair argument ; manly piety, un-
adulterated by superstition, and never disgraced by cant.
The child that is unborn will thank that man for his
labors.*

I have already quoted too many names, but I must
not omit one which would alone have been sufficient to
have shown that there is no necessary connection be-
tween skepticism and the philosophy of the human mind ;
I mean Bishop Butler. To his sermons we are indebted
for the complete overthrow of the selfish system ; and to
his " Analogy," for the most noble and surprising defense
of revealed religion, perhaps, which has ever yet been
made of any system whatever. But there is no occasion

* Sir James Mackintosh says, in his introductory Law lecture (p. 32):
— " The same reason will excuse me for passing over in silence the works
of many philosophers and moralists, to whom, in the course of my pro-
posed lectures, I shall owe and confess the greatest obligations ; and it
might perhaps deliver me from the necessity of speaking of Dr. Paley, if
I were not desirous of this public opportunity of professing my gratitude
for the instruction and pleasure which I have received from that excel-
lent writer, who possesses, in so eminent a degree, those invaluable quali-
ties of a moralist — good sense, caution, sobriety, and perpetual reference
to convenience and practice ; and who certainly is thought less original
than he really is, merely because his taste and modesty have led him to
disdain the ostentation of novelty, and because he generally employs more
art to blend his own arguments with the body of received opinions (so as
that they are scarce to be distinguished), than other men, in the pursuit
of a transient popularity, have exerted to disguise the most miserable
commonplaces in the shape of paradox."

20 INTRODUCTORY LECTURE.

to prop this argument up by great names. The school
of natural religion is the contemplation of nature ; the
ancient anatomist who was an atheist, was converted by
the study of the human body : he thought it impossible
that so many admirable contrivances should exist, with-
out an intelligent cause ; — and if men can become reli-
gious from looking at an entrail, or a nerve, can they be
taught atheism from analyzing the structure of the human
mind ? Are not the affections and passions which shake
the very entrails of man, and the thoughts and feelings
which dart along those nerves, more indicative of a God
than the vile perishing instruments themselves ? Can
you remember the nourishment which springs up in the
breast of a mother, and forget the feelings which spring
up in her heart ? If God made the blood of man, did he
not make that feeling, which summons the blood to his
face, and makes it the sign of guilt and of shame ? You
may show me a human hand, expatiate upon the singular
contrivance of its sinews, and bones ; how admirable,
how useful, for all the purposes of grasp, and flexure : i"
will show you, in return, the mind, receiving her tribute
from the senses ; — comparing, reflecting, compounding,
dividing, abstracting ; — the passions soothing, aspiring,
exciting, till the whole world falls under the dominion
of man ; evincing that in his mind the Creator has reared
up the noblest emblem of his wisdom, and his power.
The philosophy of the human mind is no school for infi-
delity, but it excites the warmest feelings of piety, and
defends them with the soundest reason.

One of the great impediments attendant upon this
branch of knowledge is the natural and original difficulty
of reflecting upon the operations of our own minds. It
is much more easy, for instance, to think of the parts of
an intricate machine, than of any act of memory, judg-
ment, or imagination. We may attribute this to the
necessity we are under of attending to objects of sense,
from our earliest infancy. We are under no necessity
of attending with great carefulness and precision to the
operations of our minds ; but we must examine, over and
over again, with extreme care, the ideas of our senses,
for the mere purposes of security, and existence : this

INTRODUCTORY LECTURE. 21

gives us a familiarity with one set of ideas, that we have
had no opportunity of acquiring in the other ; and makes
this species of study very difficult, and very painful.

Perhaps no habit would ever render it as easy to
attend to the manner in which our mind acts, as to
attend to those notions we have gathered from the eye,
and the ear, and the touch. Providence, intending man
for a life of greater activity than contemplation, has
placed this impediment to the free exercise of thought,
and made use of the pain which generally accompanies
profound meditation, as a check and barrier to human
power.

Another difficulty which attends this study, is the
metaphorical nature of its language. Mankind first give,
names to the objects of sense which surround them, — to
the sun, the wind, the rain, the mountains, woods, and
sea ; and having established this nomenclature, they call
the mind, and its faculties, by the name of some object to
which they appear to bear a resemblance. For the soul,
they have generally taken the name of the most subtile
and invisible fluid with which they were acquainted ;
and, accordingly, in a great variety of languages it is
signified by the same word which signifies wind, or
breath.*

The misfortune is, that this borrowed language insen-
sibly betrays us into false notions of the human under-
standing, from which we find it rather difficult to
disentangle ourselves. For instance, we talk about
recollecting a place as if we had gathered together the

* " It may lead us a little toward the original of all our notions and
knowledge, if we remark how great a dependence our words have on
common sensible ideas, and how those which are made use of to stand for
actions and notions quite removed from sense, have their rise from thence,
and from obvious, sensible ideas, are transferred to more abstruse signifi-
cations, and made to stand for ideas, that come not under the cognizance
of our senses ; v. g., to imagine, apprehend, comprehend, adhere, conceive,
instill, disgust, disturbance, tranquillity, (fee, are all words taken from the
operations of sensible things, and applied to certain modes of thinking.
Spirit, in its primary signification, is breath ; — angel, a messenger : and I
doubt not, but, if we could trace them to their sources, we should find, in
all languages, the names, which stand for things that fall under our senses,
to have had their first rise from sensible ideas." — Locke, book iii. chap. i.
paragraph 5, p. 190.

22 INTRODUCTORY LECTURE.

ideas of the parlor, and the drawing-room, and the
grass-plot, which lay dispersed in different parts of the
brain, and put them into the order in which they really
exist. This is what the word seems to suggest, and
what, I fancy, many people actually suppose to take
place in their understandings ; whereas the real fact is
(as I shall show in some future lecture at full length),
that one idea of the whole train first presents itself to
our mind, and after we have made every effort to dwell
upon, and retain this, the others follow of their own ac-
cord, without any power of ours, exactly in the order in
which they had been previously observed. It would,
however, be extremely curious and useful, to collect, in
a great variety of languages, all the similitudes which
mankind have hit upon, for the operations and divisions
of the faculties of the mind. Such a long, extensive, and
authentic record of human opinions upon these subjects,
might give birth to many interesting speculations, and
throw some light upon questions which have long been
the opprobrium of this science.

Some very considerable men are accustomed to hold
very strong and sanguine language respecting the
important discoveries which are to be made in Moral
Philosophy, from a close attention to facts ; and by that
method of induction which has been so invaluably em-
ployed in Natural Philosophy : but then this appears to
be the difference ; — that Natural Philosophy is directed
to subjects with which we are little or imperfectly ac-
quainted ; Moral Philosophy investigates faculties we
have always exercised, and passions we have always
felt. Chemistry, for instance, is perpetually bringing to
light fresh existences ; four or five new metals have been
discovered within as many years, of the existence of
which no human being could have had any suspicion ;
but no man, that I know of, pretends to discover four or
five new passions, neither can any thing very new be
discovered of those passions and faculties with which
mankind are already familiar. We are, in natural philos-
ophy, perpetually making discoveries of new properties
in bodies, with whose existence we have been acquainted
for centuries : Sir James Hall has just discovered that

INTRODUCTORY LECTURE. 23

lime can be melted by carbonic acid ; — but who hopes
that he can discover any new flux for avarice ? or any
improved method of judging, and comparing ? We have
have had no occasion to busy ourselves with the chro-
mian or Titanian metal ; but we have commonly em-
ployed our minds for twenty or thirty years, before we
begin to speculate upon them.

There may, indeed, be speculative discoveries made
with respect to the human mind ; for instance, Mr.
Dugald Stewart contends that attention should be
classed among our faculties. Now if attention be a
faculty, it is certainly a discovery, for nobody had ever
so classed it before Mr. Stewart : but whether it be so,
or only a mode of other faculties, it is of no consequence
in practice ; for nobody has ever been ignorant of the
importance and efficacy of attention, whether it be one
thing, or whether it be the other.

So with that notion of the Rev. Mr. Gay's, that all
our passions are explicable upon the principle of asso-
ciation ; if this opinion be true, it is a discovery, and a
curious one. But -then it affords no practical rule, for
mankind are too much acquainted with practical rules
to allow of such pure novelty as would constitute dis-
covery.

Of the uses of this science of Moral Philosophy one
is — the vigor and acuteness, which it is apt to com-
municate to the faculties. The slow and cautious pace
of mathematics is not fit for the rough road of life ; it
teaches no habits which will be of use to us when we
come to march in good earnest : it will not do, when
men come to real business, to be calling for axioms, and
definitions, and to admit nothing without full proof, and
perfect deduction ; we must decide sometimes upon the
slightest evidence, catch the faintest surmise, and get to
the end of an affair before a mathematical head could
decide about its commencement. I am not comparing
the general value of the two sciences, but merely their
value as preparatory exercises for the mind ; and there,
it appears to me that the science of Moral Philosophy is
much better calculated to form intellectual habits, useful
in real life. The subtilties about mind and matter,

24 INTRODUCTORY LECTURE.

cause and effect, perception and sensation, may be for-
gotten ; but the power of nice discrimination, of arresting
and examining the most subtile and evanescent ideas,
and of striking rapidly, and boldly, into the faintest track
of analogy ; to see where it leads, and what it will pro-
duce ; an emancipation from the tyranny of words, an
undaunted intrepidity to push opinions up to their first
causes ; — all these virtues remain, in the dexterous poli-
tician, the acute advocate, and the unerring judge.

I have said that no practical discoveries can be made
in Moral Philosophy, because I think the word discovery
implies so much originality, and novelty, that I can
hardly suppose they will be met with in a subject with
which mankind are so familiar. But then opinions may
be discoveries to the individual, which are not discov-
eries to the world at large. It may be of incalcuable
advantage to me, at an early period of life, to guard my
understanding from the pernicious effects of association ;
though those effects can not now be pointed out for the
first time ; I might have learned something about
association without the aid of this science, by the mere
intercourse of life, but I should not have learned that
lesson so early, and so well. I am no longer left to
gather this important law of my nature from accidental
and disconnected remark, but it is brought fully and
luminously before me ; — I see that one man differs from
another in the rank and nobleness of his understanding,
in proportion as he counteracts this intellectual attrac-
tion of cohesion ; I become permanently, and vigilantly,
suspicious of this principle in my own mind ; and when
called upon, in the great occasions of life, to think, and
to act, I separate my judgment from the mere accidents
of my life, and decide, not according to the casualties
of my fortune, but the unbiased dictates of my reason :
without this science, I might have had a general, and
faint suspicion — with it, I have a rooted and operative
conviction — of the errors to which my understanding is
exposed. If it be useful to our talents, and virtues, to
turn the mind inwardly upon itself, and to observe
attentively the facts relative to our passions and faculties,
this is the value, and this the object, of Moral Philosophy.

INTRODUCTORY LECTURE. 25

It teaches, for the conduct of the understanding, a
variety of delicate rules which can result only from such
sort of meditation ; and it gradually subjects the most
impetuous feelings to patient examination and wise con-
trol : it inures the youthful mind to intellectual difficulty,
and to enterprise in thinking ; and makes it as keen as
an eagle, and as unwearied as the wing of an angel. In
looking round the region of spirit, from the mind of the
brute and the reptile, to the sublimest exertions of the
human understanding, this philosophy lays deep the
foundations of a fervent and grateful piety, for those
intellectual riches which have been dealt out to us with
no scanty measure. With sensation alone, we might
have possessed the earth, as it is possessed by the lowest
order of beings : but we have talents which bend all the
laws of nature to our service ; memory for the past,
providence for the future, — senses which mingle pleasure
with intelligence, the surprise of novelty, the boundless
energy of imagination, accuracy in comparing, and
severity in judging ; an original affection, which binds
us together in society ; a swiftness to pity ; a fear of
shame ; a love of esteem ; a detestation of all that is
cruel, mean, and unjust. All these things Moral Philoso-
phy observes, and, observing, adores the Being from
whence they proceed.

B

LECTURE II.

HISTORY OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY.

I purpose to give, in this lecture, a succinct history of
opinions, both in the intellectual and active divisions of
Moral Philosophy ; from the formation of the great
schools in Greece to the present time.

Of the principles from which the obligations to virtue
proceed, most sects have given an account which is at
least intelligible, however each particular persuasion
may vary from that which precedes it : but the specula-
tions of many of the ancients on the human understand-
ing, are so confused, and so purely hypothetical, that
their greatest admirers are not agreed upon their mean-
ing; and whenever we can procure a plain statement
of their doctrines, all other modes of refuting them
appear to be w T holly superfluous.

Whoever is fond of picking up little bits of wisdom,
in great heaps of folly, and of seeing Moral Philosophy
and common sense beaming through the gross darkness
of polytheism, and poetical fiction, may sit down and
trace this science from Zoroaster the Chaldean, Belus the
Assyrian, and Berosus, who taught the Chaldean learning
to the Greeks. He will find a very pleasant obscurity
in all that we know of the opinions of Zoroaster, of the
Persian Magi, Hystaspes, and Hostanes. Of those
celebrated men Cadmus, and Sanchoniathon, and poor
Moschus the Phoenician, so heartily abused by Dr. Cud-
worth, he may pick up some acute remarks of Theut, or
Thoth, the founder of Egyptian wisdom, and philosophize
with Abaris, Anacharsis, Toxaris, and Zamolxis, the
learned Scythians. Passing by all these gallant gentle-
men (for whose company I confess I have no very great

HISTORY OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 27

relish), I shall descend at once upon Athens, where
philosophy, as Milton says, came down from heaven to
the low-roofed house of Socrates.

" from whose mouth issued forth

Mellifluous streams that watered all the schools
Of Academics old and new ; with those
Surnamed Peripatetics, and the sect
Epicurean, and the Stoic severe."

The morality of Socrates was reared upon the basis
of religion. The principles of virtuous conduct which
are common to all mankind, are, according to this wise
and good man, laws of God ; and the argument by which
he supports this opinion is, that no man departs from
these principles with impunity. " It is frequently possi-
ble," says he, " for men to screen themselves from the
penalty of human laws, but no man can be unjust or
ungrateful without suffering for his crime — hence I con-
clude that these laws must have proceeded from a more
excellent legislator than man." Socrates taught that
true felicity is not to be derived from external possessions,
but from wisdom ; which consists in the knowledge and
practice of virtue ; — that the cultivation of virtuous
manners is necessarily attended with pleasure as well as
profit ; — that the honest man alone, is happy ; — and that
it is absurd to attempt to separate things which are in
their nature so united as virtue and interest.

Socrates was, in truth, not very fond of subtile and
refined speculations ; and upon the intellectual part of
our nature, little or nothing of his opinions is recorded.
If we may infer any thing from the clearness and sim-
plicity of his opinions on moral subjects, and from the
bent which his genius had received for the useful and
the practical, he would certainly have laid a strong-
foundation for rational metaphysics. The slight sketch
I have given of his moral doctrines contains nothing
very new or very brilliant, but comprehends those moral
doctrines which every person of education has been
accustomed to hear from his childhood ; — but two thou-
sand years ago they were great discoveries, — two thou-
sand years since, common sense was not invented. If
Orpheus, or Linus, or any of those melodious moralists,

28 LECTURE II.

sung, in bad verses, such advice as a grand-mamma
would now give to a child of six years old, he was
thought to be inspired by the gods, and statues and altars
were erected to his memory. In Hesiod there is a very
grave exhortation to mankind to wash their faces : and
I have discovered a very strong analogy between the
precepts of Pythagoras and Mrs. Trimmer ; — both think
that a son ought to obey his father, and both are clear
that a good man is better than a bad one. Therefore,
to measure aright this extraordinary man, we must
remember the period at which he lived ; that he was the
first who called the attention of mankind from the perni-
cious subtilties which engaged and perplexed their
wandering understandings to the practical rules of life ; —
he was the great father and inventor of common sense,
as Ceres was of the plow, and Bacchus of intoxication.
First he taught his cotemporaries that they did not know
what they pretended to know ; then he showed them
that they knew nothing ; then he told them what they
ought to know. Lastly, to sum up the praise of Socrates,
remember that two thousand years ago, while men were
worshiping the stones on which they trod, and the
insects which crawled beneath their feet ; — two thousand
years ago, with the bowl of poison in his hand, Socrates
said, " I am persuaded that my death, which is now just
coming, will conduct me into the presence of the gods,
who are the most righteous governors, and into the society
of just and good men ; and I derive confidence from the
hope that something of man remains after death, and
that the condition of good men will then be much better
than that of the bad." Soon after this he covered him-
self up with his cloak and expired.

From the Socratic school sprang the Cyrenaic, the
Eliac, the Megaric, the Academic, and the Cynic. Of
all these I shall notice only the Academic, because all
the rest are of very inferior note.

Of all the disciples of Socrates, Plato, though he calls
himself the least, was certainly the most celebrated. As
long as philosophy continued to be studied among the
Greeks and Romans, his doctrines were taught, and his
name revered. Even to the present day his writings

HISTORY OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 29

give a tinge to the language and speculations of philos-
ophy and theology. Of the majestic beauty of Plato's
style, it is almost impossible to convey an adequate idea.
He keeps the understanding up to a high pitch of enthu-
siasm longer than any existing writer ; and, in reading
Plato, zeal and animation seem rather to be the regular
feelings than the casual effervescence of the mind. He
appears almost disdaining the mutability and imperfection
of the earth on which he treads, to be drawing down fire
from heaven, and to be seeking among the gods above,
for the permanent, the beautiful, and the grand! In
contrasting the vigor and the magnitude of his concep-
tions with the extravagance of his philosophical tenets,
it is almost impossible to avoid wishing that he had con-
fined himself to the practice of eloquence ; and, in this
way giving range and expansion to the mind which was
struggling within him, had become one of those famous
orators who

" Wielded at will that fierce democratic,
Shook th' arsenal, and fulmin'd over Greece
To Macedon and Artaxerxes' throne."

After having said so much of his language, I am afraid
I must proceed to his philosophy; observing always,
that, in stating it, I do not always pretend to understand
it, and do not even engage to defend it. In comparing
the very few marks of sobriety and discretion with the
splendor of his genius, I have often exclaimed as Prince
Henry did about Falstaff's bill, — " Oh, monstrous ! but
one halfpennyworth of bread to this intolerable deal of
sack !"

His notion was, that the principles out of which the
world was composed were three in number, — the subject
matter of things, their specific essences, and the sensible
objects themselves. These last, he conceived to have
no probable or durable existence, but to be always in a
state of fluctuation : — but then there were certain ever-
lasting patterns and copies, from which every thing had
been made, and which he denominated their specific
essences. For instance, the individual rose which I
smell at this instant, or a particular pony upon which I
cast my eye, are objects of sense which have no durable

30 LECTURE II.

existence ; — the individual idea I have of them this mo-
ment is not numerically the same as the idea which I
had the moment before ; just as the river which I pass
now is not the same river which I passed half an hour
before, because the individual water in which I trod has
glided away : therefore these appearances of the rose,
and the pony, are of very little importance ; but there is
somewhere or other an eternal pony, and an eternal rose,
after the pattern of which one and the other have been
created. The same with actions as with things. If
Plato had seen one person make a bow to another, he
would have said that the particular bow was a mere
visible species ; but there was an unchanging bow which
had existed from all eternity, and which was the model
and archetype and specific essence of all other bows.
But, says Plato, all things in this world are individuals.
We see this man, and that man, and the other man;
but a man — the general notion of a man — we do not,
and can not gain from our senses : therefore we have
existed in some previous state, where we have gained
these notions of uuiversal natures. In childhood, where
human creatures are governed by the feelings of the
body, these general ideas are forgotten : but in propor-
tion as reason assumes the reins of empire, we call to
mind these eternal exemplars, of which our understand-
ing had before taken notice in a previous state of exist-
ence. Thus, to form general ideas was merely an act
of memory ; — and in this manner Plato attempted to
overcome a difficulty which, two thousand years after-
ward, drove Malebranche to a theory equally extrava-
gant, w T as too hard for Mr. Locke, and was settled, at
fast, by the extraordinary acuteness of Bishop Berkeley.
Plato's ideas of virtue were these : he divided the soul
into three different natures — reason, or the governing
power ; the passions founded on pride and resentment,
or the irascible part of our nature ; and the passions
which have pleasure for their object, and which we
commonly call by the name of appetites. Virtue, ac-
cording to this system, then exhibited herself when each
of these three faculties of the mind confined itself to its
proper office, without attempting to encroach upon that

HISTORY OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 31

of any other; — when reason, directed, and passion obeyed ;
and when each passion performed its proper duty easily,
and without reluctance. Of this system it may be shortly
remarked, that it is generally good as far as it goes, but
that it does not go far enough ; for if you tell me that
prudence and propriety are the test of virtue, I ask you
why are they the test of virtue ? If you can give me no
reason, why do you call them so ? and if you can, the
system does not reach the foundation of morals, or afford
me the ultimate reason why one action is better than
another.

The school of Plato long continued famous, but passed
through several changes ; on account of which it was
distinguished into the old, the middle, and the new
Academy. The old Academy consisted of those fol-
lowers of Plato who taught his doctrine without cor-
ruption. It was the doctrine of the new Academy
(founded by Carneades) that the senses, the understand-
ing, and the imagination, frequently deceive us, and
therefore can not be infallible judges of truth ; but that,
from the impressions which we perceive to be produced
on the mind by means of the senses, we infer appearances
of truth, or probabilities : these impressions Carneades
called phantasies or images. He maintained that they
do not always correspond to the real nature of things ;
and that there is no infallible method of determining
when they are true or false. Nevertheless, with respect
to the conduct of life and the pursuit of happiness, Car-
neades held, that probable appearances are a sufficient
guide, because it is unreasonable not to allow some de-
gree of credit to those witnesses who commonly give a
true report.

Of probabilities Carneades made the following scale :
— The lowest degree was, where the mind, in the casual
occurrence of any single image, perceived in it nothing
contrary to nature or truth. The second was, when the
circumstances by which that image was accompanied
afforded no appearance of inconsistency or incongruity
which might lead us to suspect the truth of the sensa-
tion : as, for instance, if I think I see a horse, the cir-
cumstance of his appearing at the same time to be

32 LECTURE II.

grazing m a meadow is an additional corroboration of
the truth of the sensation ; but if I think I see a horse
upon the top of a house, the circumstances which
accompany this idea of the horse, ought to go some way
to convince me I am mad, or dreaming. The last point
in the scale of probabilities I can really hardly distin-
guish from the second ; it seems only a longer and more
serious pause, a more cautious and minute examination
of the evidence of the senses ; — and thus much of the
philosophy of the new Academy (stripped of the magis-
terial and ostentatious garb in which all the Grecian
schools tricked out their theories) seems to be good plain
sense. All knowledge founded upon the evidence of the
senses is, and can be, strictly speaking, nothing more
than probable evidence. The mathematics alone afford
us certain evidence.

The shades of difference between the middle Academy
and the new are so slight, and the sketch I am attempt-
ing to give must necessarily be so very summary, that I
shall pass over this first ramification of the Platonic
school to the philosophy of Aristotle ; humbly imploring
the forgiveness of those disciples of Arcesilaus, and
favorers of the middle Academy, who may happen to be
present this day at the Institution.

Whoever Is fond of the biographical art, as a reposi-
tory of the actions and the fortunes of great men, may
enjoy an agreeable specimen of its certainty in the life
of Aristotle. Some writers say he was a Jew ; others,
that he got all his information from a Jew, that he kept
an apothecary's shop, and was an atheist ; others say, on
the contrary, that he did not keep an apothecary's shop,
and that he was a Trinitarian. Some say he respected
the religion of his country ; others that he offered sacri-
fices to his wife, and made hymns in favor of his father-
in-law. Some are of opinion he was poisoned by the
priests ; others are clear that he died of vexation, because
he could not discover the causes of the ebb and flow in
the Eurlpus. We now care or know so little about
Aristotle, that Mr. Fielding, in one of his novels, says,
"Aristotle is not such a fool as many people believe,
who never read a syllable of his works."

HISTORY OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 33

Before the Reformation, his morals used to be read to
the people in some of the churches of Germany, instead
of the Scriptures ; his philosophy had an exclusive
monopoly granted to it by the parliament of Paris, who
forbade the use of any other in France ; and the Presi-
dent De Thou informs us, that Paul de Foix, one of the
most learned and elegant men of his time, in passing
through Ferrara, refused to see the famous Patricius, or
to meet him at any third house, because he disbelieved
in some of the doctrines of Aristotle. Certainly the two
human beings who have had the greatest influence upon
the understandings of mankind have been Aristotle and
Lord Bacon. To Lord Bacon we are indebted for an
almost daily extension of our knowledge of the laws of
nature in the outward world ; and the same modest and
cautious spirit of inquiry extended to Moral Philosophy,
will probably at last give us clear, intelligible ideas of
our spiritual nature. Every succeeding year is an
additional confirmation to us that we are traveling in
the true path of knowledge ; and as it brings in fresh
tributes of science for the increase of human happiness,
it extorts from us fresh tributes of praise to the guide
and father of true philosophy. To the understanding of
Aristotle, equally vast, perhaps, and equally original, we
are indebted for fifteen hundred years of quibbling and
ignorance ; in which the earth fell under the tyranny of
words, and philosophers quarreled with one another, like
drunken men in dark rooms who hate peace without
knowing why they fight, or seeing how to take aim.
Professors were multiplied without the world becoming
wiser ; and volumes of Aristotelian philosophy were
written which, if piled one upon another, would have
equaled the Tower of Babel in height, and far exceeded
it in confusion. Such are the obligations we owe to the
mighty Stagirite ; for that he was of very mighty under-
standing, the broad circumference and the deep root of
his philosophy most lamentably evince. His treatises
on Government, on Rhetoric, on Poetry, are still highly
valued. I have been speaking of him as a natural
philosopher, as a metaphysician, and as a logician. I
would refer those who are great sticklers for Aristotle's

34 LECTUEE II.

various treatises on morals to Grotius's critique on them
in his treatise on Peace and War, and to Barbeyrac's
preface to Puffendorf. Of his experiments Lord Bacon
says, that, of all the ancient philosophers, Aristotle was
the greatest enemy to experimental philosophy ; for he
first of all laid down a theory in his own mind, and then
distorted his experiments to support it. In his treatise
on Government there are some very enormous and
atrocious doctrines.

Aristotle held, that all sensible objects were made up
of two principles, both of which he calls equally sub-
stances, — the matter, and the specific essence. He was
not obliged to hold, like Plato, that those principles
existed prior in order of time to the objects which they
afterward composed. They were prior, he said, in
nature, but not in time (according to a distinction which
was of use to him upon many other occasions). He
distinguished also between actual and potential existence :
by the first, understanding what is commonly meant by
existence, or reality ; by the second, the bare possibility
of existence. Neither the material essence of body
could, according to him, exist actually without being
determined by some specific essence to some particular
class of being, nor any specific essence without being
embodied in some portion of matter. Each of these two
principles, however, could exist potentially in a separate
state. That matter existed potentially which, being
endowed with a particular form, could be brought into
actual existence ; and that form existed potentially
which, by being embodied in a particular portion of
matter, could in the same manner be called forth into the
class of complete realities. What difference there is
between the potential existence of Aristotle, and the
separate essences of Plato, and what foundation there is
in reality either for the one or the other, I confess
myself wholly at a loss to comprehend.

Virtue, according to this philosopher, consists in the
habit of mediocrity according to right reason. Every
particular virtue, according to him, lies in a medium
between two opposite vices ; of which the one offends
from being too much, the other from being too little

HISTORY OP MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 35

affected by a particular species of objects. Thus, the
virtue of fortitude lies in the middle between the oppo-
site extremes of cowardice and rashness ; of which the
one offends from being too much, the other too little
affected by the objects of fear. And magnanimity, in
the same manner, is a sort of medium estimation of our
own dignity, equally removed from the extremes of
arrogance and pusillanimity.

Aristotle, when he made virtue to consist in practical
habits, had it probably in view to oppose the doctrine of
Plato, who seems to have been of opinion that just
sentiments, and reasonable judgments, concerning what
was fit to be done or avoided, were alone sufficient to
constitute the most perfect virtue. Virtue, according
to Plato, might be considered as a sort of science ; and
no man, he thought, could see clearly what was right
and wrong, and not act accordingly. Aristotle, on the
contrary, was of opinion, that no conviction of the
understanding could get the better of inveterate habits ;
and that good morals arose not from knowledge, but
from action.

Next comes the Stoic sect, whose founder was Zeno.*
Zeno was born at Cyprus, and was the son of a mer-
chant, who, having frequent occasion in his mercantile
capacity to visit Athens, bought for his son several of
the writings of the most eminent Socratic philosophers.
These he read with great avidity, and from their perusal
laid the foundation of his philosophical fame. In the
course of his mercantile pursuits he freighted a ship for
Athens, with a very valuable cargo of Phoenician purple,
which he completely lost by shipwreck on the coast, near
the Piraeus. A very acute man, who found himself in a
state of sudden and complete poverty at Athens, would
naturally enough think of turning philosopher, both as by
its doctrines it inspired him with some consolation for
the loss of his Phoenician purple, and by its profits

* According to Zeno, the founder of the Stoical doctrine, every animal
was by nature recommended to its own care ; and was endowed with the
principle of self-love, that it might endeavor to preserve, not only its ex-
istence, but all the different parts of its nature, in the best and most per-
fect state of which they were capable. — Adam Smith's Theory of Moral
Sentiments, vol. ii. part vii. s^ot. ii.

36 LECTURE II.

afforded him some chance of subsistence without it.
After attending various masters of the Cynic school,
which was then in high reputation, he put forth his own
system of opinions, upon which was formed the Stoic
school, one of the most considerable in ancient Greece.
The opinions of the Stoics upon the intellectual part
of our nature, were either the same as, or very nearly
allied to, those of Plato and Aristotle ; though they were
often disguised in very different iangnage. The accounts
of the morality of the Stoics I shall read to you from the
very beautiful epitome which Dr. Adam Smith has
given of their doctrines in the second volume of his
" Theory of Moral Sentiments" (p. 186). " The self-
love of man embraced, if I may say so, his body and all
its different members, his mind and all its different facul-
ties and powers, and desired the preservation and main-
tenance of them all in their best and most perfect condi-
tion. Whatever tended to support this state of existence
was, therefore, by nature pointed out to him as fit to be
chosen ; and whatever tended to destroy it as fit to be
rejected. Thus health, strength, agility, and ease of
body, as well as the external conveniences which could
promote these — wealth, power, honors, the respect and
esteem of those we live with — were naturally pointed
out to us as things eligible, and of which the possession
was preferable to the want. On the other hand, sickness,
infirmity, unwieldiness, pain of body, as well as all the
external inconveniences which tend to occasion or bring
on any of them — poverty, the want of authority, the
contempt or hatred of those we live with — were, in the
same manner, pointed out to us as things to be shunned
and avoided. In each of those two opposite classes of
objects, there were some which appeared to be more the
objects either of choice or rejection than others in the
same class. Thus, in the first class, health appeared
evidently preferable to strength, and strength to agility ;
reputation to power, and power to riches. And thus,
too, in the second class, sickness was more to be avoided
than unwieldiness of body, ignominy than poverty, and
poverty than the loss of power. Virtue, and the pro-
priety of conduct, consisted in choosing and rejecting all

HISTORY OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 37

different objects and circumstances according as they
were by nature rendered more or less the objects of
choice or rejection ; in selecting always from among the
several objects of choice presented to us that which was
most to be chosen when we could not obtain them all ;
in selecting, too, out of the several objects of rejection
offered to us, that which was least to be avoided when it
was not in our power to avoid them all. By choosing
and rejecting with this just and accurate discernment,
by thus bestowing upon every object the precise degree
of attention it deserved, according to the place which it
held in this natural scale of things, we maintained,
according to the Stoics, that perfect rectitude of conduct
which constituted the essence of virtue. This was
what they called to live consistently, to live according
to nature, and to obey those laws and directions which
nature, or the Author of Nature, had prescribed for our
conduct."

From the philosophy of the Stoics I shall proceed to
one of a very different complexion, the sect of Epicurus.

Epicurus was the son of a schoolmaster and a woman
who gained her livelihood by curing diseases by magic,
driving away ghosts, and performing other services
equally marvelous. The circumstance which first
turned his attention to philosophy is said to have been,
that, on reading the works of Hesiod, he consulted his
master upon the meaning of the word chaos. The peda-
gogue, unable to solve the point, instead of scourging
him for asking too difficult a question, as is commonly
the custom, referred him to the philosophers for an
explanation. To the philosophers, as soon as an oppor-
tunity offered, he had recourse for more information
than he could gain from schoolmasters, and acquired all
he could glean from Pamphilus a Platonist, Nausiphanes
a Pythagorean, and Pyrrho the Skeptic. He was at
Athens also a student, while Xenocrates taught in the
Academy, and Theophrastus in the Lyceum. When
Cicero therefore calls him a self-taught philosopher, we
are not to understand by that expression that he was
never instructed in the tenets of other masters, but that
his system of philosophy was the result of his own reflec-

38 LECTURE II.

tions, after comparing the doctrines of other sects. In
the thirty-second year of his age, he opened a school at
Mytilene. Not satisfied, however, with the narrow
sphere of philosophical fame which this obscure situation
afforded him, he repaired to Athens, purchased a pleasant
garden, where he took up his residence and taught his
philosophy ; — and hence his disciples were called the
philosophers of the garden. The friendship of the
Epicurean sect is described by Cicero, in his treatise
" De Finibus," as unexampled in the history of human
attachments ; and Valerius Maximus relates a memora-
ble example of friendship between Polycrates and Hip-
poclides, two disciples of this sect. It is impossible,
however, to receive these accounts without some sort of
mistrust. A set of graminivorous metaphysicians, living
together in a garden, and employing their whole time in
acts of benevolence toward each other, carries with it
such an air of romance, that I am afraid it must be con-
siderably lowered, and rendered more tasteless, before it
can be brought down to the standard of credibility and
the probabilities of real life. At least we may be tolera-
bly sure, that if half a dozen metaphysicians, such as
metaphysicians are in these modern days, were to live in
a garden in Battersea or Kew, that their friendship
would not be of very long duration ; and their learned
labors would probably be interrupted by the same reasons
which prevented Reaumur's spiders from spinning, —
they fabricated a very beautiful and subtile thread, but,
unfortunately, they were so extremely fond of fighting,
that it was impossible to keep them together in the same
place.

There are two totally opposite accounts of the lives
and doctrines of the Epicureans : — the one, that they
only recommended and pursued such sort of pleasures as
they deemed not inconsistent with that virtuous tran-
quillity which was the chief end of their philosophy ; the
opposite opinion goes to fix upon them the charge of
shameless and unlimited debauchery. Unfortunately,
all the writings of Epicurus (by far the most prolific
writer among the Grecian philosophers) have perished,
with the exception of a very few fragments dispersed

HISTORY OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 39

among ancient authors. It is probable, however, that
both accounts are true ; for it must be observed, that the
philosophy of Epicurus, in its most favorable garb, con-
tains within itself a principle of rapid corruption : it is
precisely that which may inhabit a great and vigorous
mind with safety, but which, dispersed abroad among all
the medley of human minds and dispositions, would
shoot up into rank licentiousness.

Epicurus held that there are three instruments of
judgment — sense, preconception, and passion. Sense,
he was of opinion, could never be deceived ; though the
judgment founded upon the representations of the senses
might be either true or false. For instance, if a person
of imperfect sight were to mistake the head of a post for
the head of a cow, Epicurus would contend that the eye
conveyed to the mind a notice of every ray of light that
acted upon it in this instance, and that the mind had
determined hastily upon the evidence presented to it.
Every opinion he thought to be true which was attested,
or not contradicted, by the senses. Lastly, opinions
might be received as true, w r hich were established by
some immediate inference from the senses : as, if I see
any thing move, it is a plain proof there must be a
vacuum in nature, to admit of the motion of any body
whatever ; and the contrary opinion, that there is no
vacuum, can not be true, because it contradicts the evi-
dence of the senses. By preconceptions he appears to
have meant what we denominate general ideas, which
are formed, he contends, either by the repeated im-
pression of the senses ; by enlarging or diminishing a
sensation, as in the instances of a giant or of a dwarf;
by resemblance, as of an unknown city to one which has
been seen ; or by composition, as in the instance of a
centaur. Preconception is necessary to enable us to
inquire, reason, or judge of any thing. Truths not self-
evident, are to be deduced from some manifest precon-
ception ; or, where the relation of ideas is obscure, it is
to be made manifest by the intermediate use of some
acknowledged principle.

This philosopher considered the pleasures and pains
of the bodv to be the sole objects of desire and aversion.

40 LECTURE II.

That they were always the object of desire and aversion
he considered to be a matter of fact too notorious to
require proof; but he contended that they were also the
sole original object. The pains and pleasures of the
mind, he contended, were all, in the first instance, de-
rived from those of the body, though they afterward
became incomparably more powerful and important,
because the body feels but for the present moment, — the
mind joys and grieves, by anticipation and by recollec-
tion ; therefore to keep the mind easy was at all times
the most important object. The virtues he thought of
no importance for themselves, but for their consequences.
For example, to save a guinea, when you may spend it
agreeably, is not in itself desirable, for it is rather painful
at the moment ; but it is important only in its conse-
quences. To be temperate, and abstain from a particular
food, is a virtue not agreeable while it is exercised, but
by the consequences it produces after it is exercised.
Thus with justice : if one boy abstain from taking away
another boy's pie, it is not because he receives any pleas-
ure from not taking away the pie, but because he wishes
to avoid certain consequences which would follow the
seizure. Such was the idea Epicurus had of virtue ; and
before I conclude I shall offer a very few remarks on his
system.

In the first place, the plan of solving all the phenomena
of the passions by the dread of bodily pain, and the love
of bodily pleasure, is very simple and beautiful ; and I
have no doubt that several of the passions commonly
supposed to be original, may be proved to be put in mo-
tion by these springs of the machine : but it will not do
for all; — for how shall we explain compassion by it?
I learn what pain is in another man by knowing what it
is in myself ; but I might know this without feeling the
pity. I might have been so constituted as to rejoice that
another man was in agony : how can you prove that my
own aversion to pain must necessarily make me feel for
the pain of another ? I have a great horror of breaking
my own leg, and I will avoid it by all means in my
power ; but it does not necessarily follow from thence
that I should be struck with horror because vou have

HISTORY OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 41

broken yours. The reason why we do feel horror, is,
that nature has superadded to these two principles of
Epicurus the principle of pity ; which, unless it can be
shown by stronger arguments to be derived from any
other feeling, must stand as an ultimate fact in our na-
ture. Did Epicurus mean to say that all the pleasures
of the mind, as they were originally derived from the
body, still kept the body in view ? and that, as we only
began to value respect from the advantages we gained
by it, so we only continue to regard it for the same rea-
son ? If this be the doctrine of Epicurus, it betrays an
extraordinary ignorance of our nature ; because we all
know there are innumerable objects which we began to
value for their advantages, which we learn to value for
themselves ; and for respect, men commonly value the
thing itself so much more than its beneficial consequences,
that they every day are found casting away all that fame
can give, in order to preserve fame itself. I might say a
great deal more upon the philosophy of Epicurus ; but I
must not forget one of his habits in philosophizing, which
I dare say will meet with the hearty approbation of every
body here present ; and that was, never to extend any
single lecture to an unreasonable period : in imitation of
which Epicurean practice, I shall conclude, and finish
the history of moral philosophy at our next meeting.

LECTURE III

HISTORY OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY.— PART II.
[imperfect.]

If the very confined plan of these Lectures would
allow of such an extended review of the history of moral
philosophy, the proper method of resuming the subject
from the concluding period of the schools purely Grecian
would be, to trace the introduction of Grecian philosophy
into the East, from the expedition of Alexander, and the
effects it produced upon the mythology of the oriental
theology. The same philosophy was introduced, by the
same conquest, into Egypt ; and the greatest encourage-
ment given to learning and learned men by the suc-
cessors of Alexander in that government. When the
remains of the Pythagorean school fled from Italy into
Egypt, an alliance took place between the Egyptian,
Platonic, and Pythagorean systems ; and from this hete-
rogeneous compound, philosophy and theology assumed
a new form.

When the philosophers, under Ptolemy Physcon, were
driven from Egypt into Asia, upon their return the ori-
ental philosophy was added to the mass, and the confusion
of opinions was completed in the Eclectic sect.

Into Rome, the Grecian philosophy was not introduced
without considerable difficulty. For when Carneades,
Diogenes, and Critolaus were sent to Rome on an em-
bassy from the Athenians, and the Roman youths of
distinction flocked together to hear the philosophers, it
was thought necessary, after dismissing the ambassadors
honorably, to pass a decree that no philosopher should
reside at Rome. Soon after, however, when Scipio

HISTORY OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 43

Africanus, Laelius, and Furius visited Athens in a mili-
tary capacity, they frequented the schools of the philos-
ophers, and became acquainted with their doctrines.
The example of these noble Romans was soon followed
by many others. Lucullus, who was instructed in philos-
ophy by Antiochus the Ascalonite, erected a magnificent
library at his house, which he opened for the use of the
learned ; and, by that means, allured many philosophers
of every different sect to settle at Rome. Sylla, after
the siege of Athens, first brought to light the writings of
Aristotle, and conveyed them to Rome. From the period
of Lucullus and Sylla, every one of the Grecian sects
had its patrons and followers among the Romans ; but,
so far as I know, no original sect of philosophy ever
sprang up among that people.

The philosophy which, a little before the Christian
era, emanated from the remains of the doctrine of Zoro-
aster, had many followers in various parts of Asia. Of
these, not a few passed over into Egypt, and contami-
nated not only the Pagan, but the Christian and Jewish
schools ; producing among the Jews the Cabalistic
mysteries, and among the Christians the Gnostic heresies.
Among the Jews, the Samaritans embraced a mixed
system of religion, partly Jewish and partly Pagan ; and,
adding to these certain doctrines of the oriental school,
produced the heresy of Simon Magus. The interpreta-
tion of the law called Cabala was brought over from
Egypt to Palestine by Simeon Shettach. After this,
there were learned men among the Jews who studied
Pagan philosophy, such as Josephus the historian. Of
the origin of the sects which existed before the destruc-
tion of Jerusalem — the Sadducees, Pharisees, Essenes,
and Therapeutics — we know little or nothing.

After the destruction of Jerusalem, their learned men
who escaped the general ruin erected schools at Jamnia,
Tiberias, and Lydda ; and among the Jewish schools
erected at Babylon, the Babylonian Talmud was com-
piled. The traditionary mystical wisdom, so called by
special indulgence, was studied by the learned Jews till
near the tenth century. At this time, the Jews perse-
cuted by the Saracens, fled into Spain ; where they paid

44 LECTURE III.

considerable attention to Pagan learning, and translated
among other things, the writings of Aristotle, from the
Arabic into the Hebrew language.

When Mohammed first appeared among the Arabians,
philosophy could hardly be said to exist among them.
At the beginning of the dynasty of the Abbassides they
first began to show a disposition for science ; and under
Al Mammon, in the ninth century, learning and philos-
ophy of every kind flourished among them. These were
greatly aided by the numerous Christian libraries which
fell into their possession. Public schools were instituted
and long flourished at Bagdad, Bassora, and Bochara ;
and, as the empire of the Saracens extended over the
West, they carried with them their zeal for the promotion
of knowledge.

The dark ages of Europe may be divided into four
periods — from Alcuin, w T ho was the cause of the renewal
of public instruction ; 2dly, the period of Roscelin, who
gave rise to the celebrated controversy between the
Nominalists and Realists. The third period, in which
Aristotelian metaphysics, obscured by passing through
the Arabian channel, were applied, with wonderful sub-
tilty, to the elucidation of Christianity, begins with Albert
and ends with Durand. The fourth period is the arrival
of the learned Greeks who w r ere expelled from Constan-
tinople. This w T as the period in which the Genius of
Science rose up from the dust and ashes, and, mindful
of his past glory, began to resume his ancient dominion
over the human mind.

" Behold ! eacli Muse, in Leo's golden days,
Starts from her trance, and trims her wither'd bays.
.Rome's ancient Genius, o'er its ruins spread,
Shakes off the dust, and rears his rev'rend head.
With sweeter notes each rising temple rung ;
A Raphael painted, and a Vida sung."

The first great name after this period of the restoration
of learning was that of Lord Bacon ; to whom, however,
we are more indebted for the opportunity of applying
those rules of philosophizing which he laid down for the
pursuit of physical science, than for any thing he did
directly for morals. It is supposed that Descartes nevei

HISTORY OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 45

read any of Bacon's writings ; though there is good
reason to believe that we are indebted to them for the
original idea of Grotius's work on natural law, which he
afterward carried into execution at the earnest solicita-
tion of the famous Nicholas Paresi. " We must consider
Grotius," says Barbeyrac (in his preface to PufFendorf),
"we must consider Grotius as the first who broke the
ice : nor can we, without the blackest envy, or the
grossest ignorance, deny to him an extraordinary clear-
ness of understanding, exquisite discernment, profound
meditation, universal erudition, a prodigious extent of
reading, a sincere love of truth, and a laborious applica-
tion to study, among various interruptions, and the vast
variety of duties imposed upon him by situations of the
highest trust and importance.'/

" The wonder of Grotius," says Barbeyrac, " is, that
his good sense has been able, in so astonishing a manner,
to remedy the darkness and deficiencies of his times ;"
and this is certainly the real and proper defense of, and
the just style of criticism for, every writer.

Two very eminent men, Mr. Hume and Mr. Home
Tooke, have spoken with a great spirit of depreciation,
and even of contempt, of John Locke. I confess there
is a sort of ingratitude of science in this, which it is very
difficult to bear with patience. It is truly painful to see
the great teachers of mankind insulted and disdained by
those, whose very talents and sagacity have been fostered
by their labors. It would be as uncandid and as unjust
that those who are now cultivating the earth with so
much skill and science, should sneer at the coarse but
necessary labors of their ancestors, who cleared the im-
penetrable woods, drained the stagnant marshes, banked
out the encroachments of the sea, and, by the sweat and
the struggles of industry, left the earth ready for the re-
finements of science. To whatever height we may carry
all human knowledge, I hope we shall never forget those
energetic and enterprising men who met the difficulty in
its rudest shape. That Grotius will never be forgotten,
as thef *****

f [The conclusion of this sentence has been on the outside cover of the
MS. book, and torn off]

46 LECTURE III.

After this period, the schools of Moral Philosophy may
be divided into those of Locke, Descartes, and Leibnitz,
originating in England, France, and Germany.

Descartes was, at an early period of life, so disgusted
with the uncertainty which appeared to him to hang
over every science which he attempted to cultivate, that
he quitted a life of study altogether, and turned soldier
and man of pleasure. So strong, however, is the original
bent and direction of men's minds, that the first instance
of his prowess recorded in the Dutch army is, an attack
upon an eminent mathematician at Breda, for some
erroneous doctrines which Descartes conceived him to
entertain respecting that science. From the Dutch ser-
vice, Descartes entered into the Bavarian army ; and
there, instead of attending to any subjects connected
with his profession, be busied himself in endeavoring to
comprehend the Rosicrucian mysteries. At last, Des-
cartes quitted the military profession, retired to Holland,
and published there his system of philosophy, which soon
engaged the attention of learned men in every quarter
of Europe. In this country the Cartesian system ob-
tained such a degree of credit, that Sir Charles Caven-
dish, brother to the Duke of Newcastle, gave him an
invitation to settle here ; and Charles the First gave him
reason to expect a very liberal appointment. Descartes
would certainly have accepted the offer if the civil wars
had not immediately afterward banished all considera-
tion for learning and learned men. He afterward
accepted an invitation from Christina, Queen of Sweden,
and, in four months after his arrival, fell a sacrifice to
the rigor of the climate.

The account of Descartes's philosophy I shall read to
you from Dr. Reid's " Intellectual Powers,"* where it is
stated with admirable precision, and commented on with
great good sense. " Descartes, about the middle of the
last century, dissatisfied with the materia prima, the
substantial forms, and the occult qualities of the Peripa-
tetics, conjectured boldly that the heavenly bodies of
our system are carried round by a vortex or whirlpool
of subtile matter, just as straws and chaff are carried
*» Vol. i p. 147.

HISTORY OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 47

round in a tub of water. He conjectured, that the soul
is seated in a small gland in the brain, called the pineal
gland: that there, as in her chamber of presence, she
receives intelligence of every thing that affects the
senses, by means of a subtile fluid contained in the nerves,
called the animal spirits ; and that she dispatches these
animal spirits, as her messengers, to put in motion the
several muscles of the body, as there is occasion. By
such conjectures as these, Descartes could account for
every phenomenon in nature, in such a plausible manner,
as gave satisfaction to a great part of the learned world
for more than half a century.

" Such conjectures in philosophical matters have com-
monly got the name of hypotheses or theories ; and the
invention of an hypothesis, founded on some slight
probabilities, which accounts for many appearances in
nature, has been considered as the highest attainment
of a philosopher. If the hypothesis hang well together,
is embellished by a lively imagination, and serve to
account for common appearances, it is considered by
many as having all the qualities that should recommend
it to our belief, and all that ought to be required in a
philosophical system.

" There is such proneness in men of genius to invent
hypotheses, and in others to acquiesce in them as the
utmost which the human faculties can attain in philoso-
phy, that it is of the last consequence to the progress of
real knowledge, that men should have a clear and distinct
understanding of the nature of hypotheses in philosophy,
and of the regard that is due to them. ,

" Although some conjectures may have a considerable
degree of probability, yet it is evidently in the nature of
conjecture to be uncertain. In every case, the assent
ought to be proportioned to the evidence ; for to believe
firmly what has but a small degree of probability, is a
manifest abuse of our understanding. Now, though we
may, in many cases, form very probable conjectures
concerning the works of men, every conjecture we can
form with regard to the works of God, has as little
probability as the conjectures of a child with regard to
the works of a man."

48 LECTURE III.

The merits of Descartes are briefly these : — that he
revolted against the Aristotelian tyranny, and overthrew
it ; that he was the first philosopher who drew a fixed
and definite line between matter and spirit; that he was
the first philosopher who taught mankind that the only
source of this sort of knowledge was an accurate con-
templation of the human mind. Malebranche, Locke,
Berkeley, were all taught this lesson by Descartes ; he,
as well as Lord Bacon, laid this foundation, and led us
into that tract which all wise men now allow to be the
only one in which we can expect success.

The most illustrious of his disciples were Bossuet,
Fenelon, and Malebranche ; and the extraordinary sys-
tem of Spinosa has, I fancy, some connection with
Cartesianism. Malebranche was clearly the forerunner
of Berkeley : so much so, indeed, that there is not a
single argument of the bishop's but what may be found
stated with equal force in Malebranche. His system
briefly was, that there is no material world, and that all
our ideas of a material world we gain from the intimate
presence of the Deity in our own minds. The system
of Malebranche was adopted by an English clergyman of
the name of Norris, in an essay which he calls the
" Theory of the Intellectual World," and which he pub-
lished in 2 vols., in the year 1701.

In England, the Cartesian philosophy, though his
name was held in high estimation, never took any root :
in fact, the English, for the first half-century of the
Cartesian philosophy, were so occupied with civil war,
hypocrisy, and profligacy, that they had no leisure to
attend to systems of philosophy. In France, its native
country, the Cartesian moral philosophy has entirely
yielded to the philosophy of Locke ; and his natural
philosophy to that of Newton : and Germany is at pres-
ent entirely divided between the old schools of Wolfe
and Leibnitz, and the modern system of the celebrated
Professor Kant.

M. Degerando, in the true French style, endeavors to
show that Locke was preceded in many of his discoveries
by Gassendi, a Frenchman, whose philosophy was made
known to this countrv by Walter Charleton, thirty-six

HISTORY OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 49

years before the first publication of Locke's Essay. I
am wholly incapable of answering this charge, as I am
entirely ignorant of Gassendi's writings ; but I should
strongly suspect, from the simplicity and honesty of Mr.
Locke's character, he would not have borrowed from
any other writer any material part of his doctrines,
without the most scrupulous avowal of the source from
whence it was derived.

Locke agreed with Descartes in thinking that we
perceive by means of some intermediate agent between
the object and the mind ; he disagreed with him as to
the origin of our ideas, — Descartes being of opinion that
some were innate, and Locke conceiving that they were
all derived either from our senses or from the power we
possess of reflecting on the operations of our understand-
ings. They differed with regard to the essence of
matter and mind. Descartes believed that the essence
of mind consisted in thought, and had a very singular
idea that the essence of matter consisted in extension.
Locke very properly determined that the word essence
has no meaning ; and that we know nothing about the
essence of either one or the other, and never can know
any thing at all about essences.

With respect to innate ideas, it has been objected to
Mr. Locke that he has not sufficiently explained the
meaning of the word. Does he mean connate ideas,
that develop themselves as soon as we are born ? if so,
the dispute is quite insignificant. If Mr. Locke mean by
the word idea (as I believe he may be shown to do) any
impression or passion of our nature, does it not seem
very strange to deny that self-love, anger, and pity are
innate, though some of these do not develop themselves
at the immediate period of our birth ? In his account
of the formation of abstract general ideas, Mr. Locke
has been, as is generally thought, completely confuted by
Bishop Berkeley ; in that notion which he held, in
common with all his predecessors, of an intermediate
agent between the mind and the outer world, he has
been refuted by Dr. Reid. His book upon the Use and
Abuse of Language is generally considered as one of the
most valuable in his Essay. The wonder is, that so few

C

50 LECTURE HI.

important errors should be discovered in a work which
takes up the science of the human mind at so barbarous
a period, and which has stood for a century the critical
inquisition of the ablest men in the keenest and most
inquisitive of all the branches of knowledge.

One of the most extraordinary men who appeared after
Locke was Berkeley, Bishop of Cloyne in Ireland ; of
whom Pope says, that there was given

" To Berkeley every virtue under Heaven ;"

and of whom Bishop Atterbury said, that, "before he
saw that gentleman, he did not think that so much un-
derstanding, so much knowledge, so much innocence,
and so much humility, had been the portion of any but
angels." To give a clear notion of the bishop's theory,
we must, for a moment, advert to Mr. Locke's doctrines
on the same subject. He thought, for instance, that
there were outward objects ; some intermediate agents
coming from that outward agent, which excited the idea
in the mind : and, lastly, that there was the mind itself.
For instance, that there was a moon, an image coming
from the moon, an idea excited by that image, and a mind
in which that image existed. Now, says Bishop Berkeley,
you allow that you do not see the objects themselves, but
only certain representatives of those objects ; therefore,
as you never see the objects themselves, what proof have
you of their existence ? You have none ; and all your
notions on these subjects are fallacious. There is no
sun, no moon, no stars, nor earth, nor sea, — they are all
notions of the mind. Such was the system of one of the
most pious men that ever lived ; and a system by which
he hoped to put an end forever to all skepticism and
irreligion.

In this sketch the name of Arthur Collier must not be
omitted. He was Rector of Langford Magna, near Sal-
isbury, and published a book, in 1713, which he calls
" The Universal Key, or a New Inquiry after Truth ;
being a Demonstration of the Non-existence or Impossi-
bility of an External World." He is a very acute man,
but a very bad writer ; and, what is singular enough, he
had never read Berkeley's theory (which had then been

HISTORY OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 51

published three years), or Locke's Essay (which had been
published twenty-four years). That two writers, Berke-
ley and Collier, should meet together at such a con-
clusion, without the smallest knowledge of each other's
intentions, is certainly a very extraordinary fact in the
history of philosophy.

The outward world being thus annihilated, Mr. Hume
determined to cure men of the absurdity of supposing
they had any minds ; and turned the same sort of argu-
ment to their destruction. As thought is only a repre-
sentative of mind, and as you never see the original, how
do you know there is any original ? And so, in this
manner, the rash and extraordinary hypothesis, that man
is a being made up of body and mind, was detected, ex-
posed, and ridiculed.

In answer to these metaphysical lunacies, Dr. Reid
has contended, that, for all reasoning, there must be some
first principles from whence such reasoning originates,
and which must necessarily be incapable of proof or
they would not be first principles ; and that facts so
irresistibly ingrafted upon human belief as the existence
of mind and matter, must be assumed for truths, and
reasoned upon as such. All that these skeptics have said
of the outer and the inner world may, with equal justice,
be applied to every other radical truth. Who can prove
his own personal identity ? A man may think him-
self a clergyman, and believe he has preached for these
ten years last past; but I defy him to offer any sort
of proof that he has not been a fishmonger all the
time.f #*####

ever doubt that all reasoning must end in arbitrary be-
lief; — that we must, at last, come to that point where the
only reply can be, " / am so, — this belief is the constitu-
tion of my nature, — God willed it." I grant that this
reasoning is a ready asylum for ignorance and imbecility,
and that it affords too easy a relief from the pain of ren-
dering a reason : but the most unwearied vigor of human
talents must at last end there ; the wisdom of ages can

f [Two pages of manuscript are here wanting.]

52 LECTURE III.

get no further ; here, after all, the porch, the garden, the
Academy, the Lyceum, must close their labors.

Much as we are indebted to Dr. Reid for preaching
up this doctrine, he has certainly executed it very badly ;
and nothing can be more imperfect than the table of first
principles which he has given us, — an enumeration of
which is still a desideratum of the highest importance.
The skeptics may then call the philosophy of the human
mind merely hypothetical ; but if it be so, all other
knowledge must of course be hypothetical also ; and if it
be so, and all is erroneous, it will do quite as well as re-
ality, if we keep up a certain proportion in our errors :
for there may be no such things as lunar tables, no sea,
and no ships ; but, by falling into one of these errors after
the other, we avoid shipwreck, or, what is the same thing,
as it gives the same pain, the idea of shipwreck. So
with the philosophy of the human mind : I may have no
memory, and no imagination, — they may be mistakes ;
but if I cultivate them both, I derive honor and respect
from my fellow-creatures, which may be mistakes also ;
but they harmonize so well together, that they are quite
as good as realities. The only evil of errors is, that they
are never supported by consequences ; if they were, they
would be as good as realities. Great merit is given to
Dr. Reid for his destruction of what is called the ideal
system, but I confess I can not see the important conse-
quences to which it has yet led.

Oswald, Beattie, and a few more Scotch writers, who
are very little known or read, have supported that appeal
to the common sense of mankind in favor of first prin-
ciples which, in my very humble opinion, was so wisely
and philosophically instituted by Dr. Reid, and which
hereafter promises to rear up the strongest bulwark
against the skeptical school.

About the year 1730, the Rev. Mr. Gay published a
dissertation on the fundamental principle of virtue. It
was not published in a separate form, but prefixed to
Archdeacon Law's translation of Archbishop King's
" Origin of Evil." In this dissertation Mr. Gay asserted
the possibility, and explained the mode, of deducing all
our intellectual pleasures and pains, from the principle

HISTORY OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 53

of association. It was this publication of Mr. Gay which
first induced Dr. Hartley to turn his thoughts to the sub-
ject ; and the result of his studies, was a conviction that
not only all our intellectual pleasures and pains, but that
all the phenomena of memory, imagination, volition, and
reasoning, may be referred to this principle : so that
nothing more is requisite to make a man what he is, but
a sentient principle, with this single property, and the in-
fluence of such circumstances as he has been actually
exposed to. As Dr. Hartley was excited to this part of
his system by Mr. Gay's dissertation, he was led to the
next and more reprehensible part of it by a query of Sir
Isaac Newton's, at the end of his Optics." " Do not the
rays of light," says Sir Isaac, " in falling upon the bottom
of the eye, excite vibrations in the tunica retinae ? and
do not these vibrations, propagated along the solid fibers
of the optic nerves into the brain, cause the sense of see-
ing ?" This was enough for Dr. Hartley's system, which
contends that the mind receives its notices of things by
means of a vibration excited in the nerve and brain.
When the excitement is considerable, he calls it a vibra-
tion ; when less, it is a vibratiuncle. I need not add,
that all this is a mere hypothesis, without a shadow of
proof; and that if it were true it would leave the con-
nection between body and mind just as unintelligible as
it was before. This part, however, of Dr. Hartley's sys-
tem has nothing to do with the other, and if it were en-
tirely brushed away would leave his doctrines of associa-
tion untouched. These doctrines have certainly made
no great fortune on the Continent ; and none in Scot-
land, where every man is a metaphysician. Their most
able defender here has been Dr. Priestley, who has left
out Hartley's vibrations, ameliorated his language, and
(to use an expression which will be very well understood
at the Royal Institution) has completely " Riwifordized"
his system. I have read his book, and, in spite of the
disgust which the style excites even in this renovated
state, it appeared to me impossible not to allow that the
principle of association is a much more extensive key to
the great phenomena of our nature than any previous
writer had considered it to be. At the same time (I say

54 LECTURE III.

it with deference) I could not help thinking that he fail-
ed considerably in the universal and systematic applica-
tion of this principle ; and that the entire building he
wished to display to the eye was erected with great in-
equalities in strength and skill. I shall barely mention
the names of Price and Priestley, without offering any
comment upon their writings ; and having so done, I be-
lieve I have nearly completed the list of all the very con-
siderable writers who have appeared since the time of
Locke in this country.

May I be allowed to add to this splendid list the names
of two gentlemen now living, — to one of whom the world
may fairly look for no common improvement of this sci-
ence, and from the other of whom it has already received
it : I mean Sir James Mackintosh and Mr. Dugald
Stewart. In my expectations from the first of these
gentlemen, those will not think I am too sanguine who
have witnessed the circumference, the order, and the
connection of his knowledge, his zeal in prosecuting it,
his perspicuity in detailing it, and that extraordinary
mixture of enterprise and judgment which makes him as
new and original as he is judicious and safe. Of the
latter gentleman, if I am not misled by the suavity of his
manners, the spotless integrity of his life, and the mar-
velous effects of that eloquence to which many others
here can bear witness as well as myself, — if all these
circumstances do not mislead me, I think I may say that
never any man has taken up this science of the human
mind with such striking and comprehensive views of
man's nature. You begin with thinking you are taking
up a curious, yet barren, speculation ; and you find it,
under the masterly hand of this writer, gradually unfold-
ing itself into a wide survey of passions, motives, and
faculties, made in chaste language, watched over with
correct taste, and adorned with beautiful illustrations.
He is ever drawing from those discussions which, in the
hands of common men, are mere scholastic subtilties,
principles useful in the conduct of life, and valuable for
the improvement of the understanding. He is the first
writer who ever carried a feeling heart and a creative
fancy into the depth of these abstract sciences, without

HISTORY OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 55

rendering them a mass of declamatory confusion. He
has not rendered his metaphysics dry and disgusting,
like Reid ; he has not involved them in lofty obscurity,
like Plato ; nor has he poisoned them with impiety, like
Hume. Above all, he has that invaluable talent of in-
spiring the young with the love of knowledge, the love
of virtue, and that feeling of modest independence which
has ever been the ornament of his conduct. I have been
his pupil, and have received kindness at his hands. Per-
haps I am overrating his merit ; but I am truly sincere
when I say, that I know no reason why he is not ranked
among the first writers of the English language, except
that he is still alive ; and my most earnest and hearty
wish is, that that cause of his depreciation may operate
for many, many years to come !

I ought, in point of time, to have mentioned Hobbes
before ; but as I could not connect him with the school
of Locke, I was forced to put him out of his proper place.
Hobbes lived in the reign of Charles the First, and was,
at one period of his life, very much connected with Des-
cartes. He offered to that philosopher some comments
on one of his publications, which Descartes treated with
great contempt; and they separated. Though he in-
curred the contempt of Descartes, he excited the aston-
ishment of Leibnitz by his profundity, who always used
to speak of him as one of the deepest thinkers that ever
existed. For the origin of our ideas he referred entirely
to sensation ; and divided all human faculties into con-
ception and imagination. Thinking, according to Hobbes,
is the succession of one imagination after another, —
which may be either irregular, or regulated with a view
to some end. Truth and falsehood are attributes, not of
things, but of language. The intellect, peculiar to man,
is a faculty arising from speech ; and the use of reason
is the deduction of remote consequences from the defini-
tions of terms. Science is the knowledge of these con-
sequences.

There are in animals two kinds of motion, one vital
and involuntary, the other animal and voluntary. The
latter, if it tend toward an object, is appetite ; if it re-
cede from it, is aversion : and the object in the former

56 LECTURE III.

case is said to be good ; in the latter, evil Appetite is
attended with pleasure, aversion with pain. In delibera-
tion, the last impulse is will; success in obtaining its
object, enjoyment. His notion of virtue was, that the
law of the civil magistrate was the sole standard of right
and wrong; that there was no natural distinction be-
tween them antecedent to the institution of positive law.
This last part of his system was answered and refuted
by Dr. Cud worth, in his "Immutable Morality." Hobbes,
though a man of the highest order of faculties, is a most
pernicious and paradoxical writer upon almost all sub-
jects. As a mathematician he is generally accused of
ignorance ; his morality is subversive of all morals, as
his policy is of all free government. His works pro-
duced, at the time, the most prodigious effect ; they are
now read by a few speculative men, and he is entirely
passed away from common notice, — as every writer always
will pass away, whatever be his talents, who thinks him-
self mightier than nature, and would expunge from the
hearts of men their primordial and irresistible feelings.

Having said all I have to say of English moral philos-
ophers, it may not be unacceptable to give some short
account of the progress of Mr. Locke's doctrine in
France. Pere Buffier, after Gassendi (whom I have
already mentioned), was the first person in France who
developed any philosophical views analogous to those of
Mr. Locke. He was the first person who attempted an
enumeration of first principles to serve as a basis for all
moral reasoning ; but though he has the merit of being
the first to enforce this method of philosophizing, he has,
in the execution of it, been still more unfortunate than
his disciple Dr. Reid, and has multiplied his catalogue of
fundamental truths beyond all bounds of good sense and
discretion. The Essay upon Abstraction by Dumarsais,
is an admirable abridgment of Locke's Essay. The
reputation of Locke was very w 7 idely disseminated by
Voltaire. Vauvenargues, whose maxims are so little
read in this country, appears to have studied him ; but
Condillac is the person who has almost naturalized
Locke in France. He has expanded and exemplified
Locke's doctrines of sensation. Locke only perceived

HISTORY OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 57

a very little chapter of the law of association, and treated
it as a mere disease of the mind ; Condillac has shown
its effects upon the entire system of our knowledge.
Locke showed that language registers our ideas ; Con-
dillac points out to us that it analyzes them, and is an
indispensable instrument in reasoning. In short, we
must unquestionably consider Condillac as the most
valuable disciple and commentator that Locke has yet
had. The effect of his book in disseminating the philos-
ophy of Locke among the French, has been prodigious.
D'Alembert undoubtedly, in his intellectual philosophy,
is a pupil of the Locke school ; and to his name may be
added those of Condorcet, Charles Bonnet, and Dege-
rando, — who wrote his Essay upon Natural Signs, when
a common soldier in the army of General Moreau.

Germany had principally received its tone of moral
philosophy from Leibnitz and Wolfe, before this last
revolution effected by Professor Kant. Perhaps no man
that ever lived combined in so eminent a degree as
Leibnitz, the faculty of invention with the habit of labor.
His theories abound with boldness and originality, as
any one who has cast a glance upon them may easily
perceive ; and he had acquired more knowledge, taking
it in extent and accuracy, than any man, perhaps, that
ever existed. His habits of labor were so intense, that
he sometimes was known to sit in his study for forty-
eight hours together; and for whole months confined
himself to his books, without any other interruptions
than those which hunger and sleep rendered absolutely
necessary. His system was, that Nature, in granting
organs to animals, had made them capable of distinct
perception, memory, and imagination. Man is distin-
guished from inferior animals by the power of knowing
necessary and eternal truths : it is from this power, that
we are capable of those reflex acts by which we are con-
scious of our own existence, and form the ideas of being,
substance, and God. Our reasonings are raised upon
two great principles : the one, that of consistency, by
means of which we judge that to be false which involves
a contradiction, and that to be true which is the reverse
of the false ; the second, is that of sufficient reason, which

58 LECTURE III.

admits nothing to exist without a sufficient reason for its
existence, though that reason may not be known to us.
In the united state of soul and body, each follows its
own laws; but they agree together by means of & pre-
established harmony between all substances, which
renders each a representation of the universe. The
soul, he says, acts according to the law of final causes,
or by motives ; the body, according to efficient causes,
or by motion : and between these two kingdoms of
nature there is a harmony, originally established, and
continually preserved, by the power of God. Such is a
very summary view of the theory of the great Leibnitz,
whom both Locke and Molyneux evidently consider as
a very overrated man, and whose system Voltaire calls
" line bonne plaisanterie."

To Leibnitz, and his successor Wolfe, succeeded an
endless list of German metaphysicians, whose systems I
am so far from being acquainted with, that I am too
ignorant to pronounce their authors' names — Baum-
garten, Meyer, Crousaz, Plouquet, Mendelsohn (the an-
tagonist of Hume), and Eberhard, Platner, and names
without any vowels or any end.

This superb list is terminated by Professor Kant, the
explanation of whose philosophy I really can not attempt :
first, from some very faint doubts whether it is explica-
ble ; next, from a pretty strong conviction that this good
company would not be much pleased to sit for another
half-hour and hear me commenting on his twelve cate-
gories ; his distinctions between empirical, rational, and
transcendental philosophy ; his absolute unity, absolute
totality, and absolute causation ; his four reflective con-
ceptions, his objective nonmenal reality, his subjective
elements, and his pure cognition. I am very far from
saying that these terms are without their share of relish
and allurement ; I must only decline, myself, the inter-
pretation of them, and refer those whose curiosity they
may excite, to the exposition of Villiers and Degerando,
in their lately-published history of philosophy.

I can not conclude this lecture without remarking the
high destiny and splendid fortune of this country, in
giving to the world its great masters of philosophy. We

HISTORY OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 59

will allow to other countries the most splendid efforts of
genius directed to this object ; but they have passed away,
and are now no more than beautiful and stupendous
errors. We will give up to them the mastery in all that
class of men who can diffuse over bad and unsocial
principles, the charms of eloquence and wit; but the
great teachers of mankind, big with better hopes than
their own days could supply, — who have looked back-
ward to the errors, and forward to the progress of man-
kind, — who have searched for knowledge only from
experience, and applied it only to the promotion of
human happiness, — who have disdained paradox and
impiety, and coveted no other fame than that which was
founded upon the modest investigation of truth, — such
men have sprung from this country, and have shed upon
it the everlasting luster of their names. Descartes has
perished, Leibnitz is fading away; but Bacon, and
Locke, and Newton remain, as the Danube and the
Alps remain : — the learned examine them, and the igno-
rant, who forget lesser streams and humbler hills, remem-
ber them as the glories and prominences of the world.
And let us never, in thinking of perpetuity and duration,
confine that notion to the physical works of nature, and
forget the eternity of fame ! God has shown his power
in the stars and the firmament, in the aged hills and in
the perpetual streams ; but he has shown it as much, in
the minds of the greatest of human beings ! Homer and
Virgil and Milton, and Locke and Bacon and Newton,
are as great as the hills and the streams ; and will endure
till heaven and earth shall pass away, and the whole
fabric of nature is shaken into dissolution and eternal
ashes.

LECTURE IV.

ON THE POWERS OF EXTERNAL PERCEPTION.
[imperfect.]

I promised, in the beginning of these lectures, to be
very dull and unamusing ; and I am of opinion that I
have hitherto acted up to the spirit of my contract ; but
if there should perchance exist in any man's mind the
slightest suspicion of my good faith, I think this day's
lecture will entirely remove that suspicion, and that I
shall turn out to be a man of unsullied veracity !

A list of great and splendid names, such as I gave in
my last lecture, of itself was some obstacle to the com-
pletion of my promise. I have no doubt, however, but
that I overcame that obstacle with sufficient success;
and, of course, that aided as I am by the subject to-day,
it will be still more perfect, and my fortune more com-
plete. It is some encouragement to me, however, in the
execution of my plan, to perceive the extreme patience
with which subjects are listened to, upon other occasions,
which in their nature are not capable of eloquence, and
in which all ornament would be impertinent and mis-
placed. I think I have observed, that the ornaments
called for here are established facts and fair reasonings ;
and that the object for which both sexes pass an hour in
this place is, to hear the investigation of some important
subject, made with some care, and conducted without
any pretense. Without offering, therefore, any other
apology in future, for the dryness and barrenness of
the subject, but trusting to the candor and good sense
of those who hear me, I shall at once proceed upon my
subject.

ON THE POWERS OF EXTERNAL PERCE I'TluN. 61

Every one knows that the senses are five number,
Smell, Taste, Hearing, Feeling, and Seeing. The nostril,
the eye, and the ear, are affected by objects at a distance
through the instrumentality of light, air, or the thin
element which emanates from odorous bodies. The
senses of taste and feeling are commonly, if not always,
affected by actual contact with the bodies themselves.

In the dissection of the human body, there are found
thin, white, minute filaments penetrating every part of it
in every direction. Every one of these, let its ramifica-
tions be ever so extensive, can at last be distinctly
traced either to the brain, or to the spinal marrow, which
proceeds immediately from the brain, and is of course
connected with it. The use of these nerves is, to convey
notions or ideas from exterior objects to the brain ; and
if this communication between the various parts of the
body and the brain be intercepted by any injury done to
the nerve which keeps up the communication, no intelli-
gence can reach the understanding from that part of the
body. For instance, at present I feel perfectly well
with my hand ; but if the great nerve that runs down
my arm were divided, J should have no sort of feeling in
that part of my arm below which the separation took
place. I might pierce my hand with a knife, or burn it
with fire, without having the smallest sense of pain, or
being in the least degree conscious that my hand was
even touched. In the same manner, if the spinal marrow
be injured, all the parts of the body whose nerves fall
into that great channel of intelligence below the part
injured become absolutely devoid of all feeling ; and
though in this case the lower extremities do not mortify,
they are dead branches, without the privilege of sensi-
bility, or the enjoyment of any of the functions of their
healthy condition ; and as the extremities can not con-
vey, in the case of an injured nerve, any intelligence to
the understanding, it can not exercise any sort of power
over the diseased limb. For when my arm (to put the
case I before cited) is injured, and can not feel, it can
not obey the will ; for, however I may wish to move it,
its motion is utterly impossible. Therefore a nerve not
only conveys the knowledge of outward objects to the

62 LECTURE IV.

mind, but it conveys the decisions of the will to the
various parts of the body. In short, to use a very trite
and obvious simile, the brain is the metropolis, the nerves
are paths and roads to it from every part of the animal
frame, the greatest of which is the spinal marrow,
absorbing a vast number of lesser communications before
it is terminated in the grand emporium of thought. To
carry on this threadbare simile a little further, we may
say, that the information thus brought to the brain, is
rapid and telegraphic beyond all conception ; the obedi-
ence rendered to its commands, dispersed over the body,
instant and profound ; and the effects of a very short
interruption of correspondence so fatal, that the impor-
tance of the region thus separated is forever destroyed.

Now, then, this is a short history of the connection
between mind and body. We know that the notion
must enter by one of the senses, we know it must be
conveyed by a nerve to the brain, and there our knowl-
edge ends ! All beyond this is mere fiction and hy-
pothesis. Whether there be a fluid passing through the
nerve, as was long supposed, — whether the nerve excite
vibrations and vibratiuncles in the brain, as Newton
queried, and Hartley thought, — whether the pineal gland
be the seat of the soul, according to Descartes ; or
whether it lodge in the oval center of the brain, accord-
ing to Vieussens ; or whether, as Willis contends,
common sense is lodged in the corpora striata, and
imagination in the corpus callosum, — all these are the
opinions of rash or ingenious men, without any founda-
tion. What additions may hereafter be made to these
discoveries it is impossible to say, but at present our
knowledge is stopped exactly where I have stated. We
know the entrance, the path, and the place of destina-
tion ; the mode of proceeding, and the effects after it has
reached its goal, we do not know.

There are two common errors respecting our sensa-
tions which those who have been in any degree accus-
tomed to these sorts of speculations will hardly remem-
ber, and those who have not, will find, perhaps, some
trifling difficulty in correcting, — I mean, the reference
of our sensations to the objects which cause them, and

ON THE POWERS OF EXTERNAL PERCEPTION. 63

to the senses which convey them. I say that I feel with
my hand, and that I see with my eye ; but what are
seeing and feeling ? They are affections of the mind,
not of the body. My eye conveys to me the notion that
this paper is white, and my hand is an instrument to
inform me this table is hard ; but the notions themselves
exist only in my mind, and can not exist in my eye or my
hand, which are mere brute matter, and quite incapable
of intelligence. There are many things which we can
only see through a microscope, but it would be very
absurd to suppose that the microscope sees ; — put away
the microscope, and it is just as absurd to suppose the
eye sees. The eye is a mere machine, like the other, to
convey knowledge to the mind ; the only difference is,
when we use a microscope we use two optical machines,
when we use the eye alone we employ only one. If we
suppose the thought itself to exist in the mere instrument
of thinking, we must, in the case of feeling, suppose
mind to be spread over all the body. There is a mind
in each foot and in every finger, and we kneel upon
mind and sit down upon it ; and the old proverb, " many
men, many minds," may with equal propriety be asserted
of a single individual. The second popular mistake
which I specified is, that of attributing our own sensa-
tions to the bodies which occasion them. If I speak of
the smell of a rose, I mean that that flower affects my
mind through the organs of smelling in that particular
manner ; — the smell is not in the rose, it is in my mind ;
there is an unknown cause in the rose which excites this
feeling of the mind called smell. There is an organ
through which that effect is produced ; but the effect
itself is in my mind. Just so, the color is not in the
table, for the word color means nothing more than an
affection of my mind ; but there is an unknown cause in
this wood which produces that effect upon my mind
through the medium of my eye. And, in general, we
must always carry it in our recollection, that in speaking
of sensation, we are speaking of what exists in our
minds ; and that when we refer these to the objects by
which, or the instruments through which, they are

64 LECTURE IV.

excited, it is a mere fashion of speaking, and not an
accurate statement of the fact.

I decline to discuss the question of the difference
between the primary and secondary qualities of bodies ;
and I assume, with Dr. Reid, the existence of matter as
a first principle not proved by reason, and not provable
by reason.

Almost all the senses are possessed by some one
animal or another, in greater perfection than by man,
though perhaps there is none that inherits such excellence
in all the five senses. We are not to judge of the
degree of sensation with which nature has endowed us
from the blunted condition of these organs in a state of
society. An American Indian has such an acute sight,
that he can discover the prints of his enemies' feet, can
ascertain their number with the greatest exactness, and
the length of time which has elapsed since their passage ;
he can discover the fires, and hear the noises of his
enemies, when no sign of the contiguity of any human
being can be discovered by the most vigilant European.
Nothing can be plainer than that a life of society is un-
favorable to all the animal powers of man. Such a
minute and scrupulous exercise of his senses is not
necessary to his safety or his support, and he gradually
subsides into that mediocrity of organs, which is sufficient
for his altered condition. One of the immediate effects
of civilization is to render such excessive bodily perfec-
tion entirely useless. A Choctaw could run from here
to Oxford without stopping : I go in the mail coach ;
and the time that the savage has been employed in
learning to run so far, I have employed in something
else. It would not only be useless in me to run like a
Choctaw, but foolish and disgraceful.

An irresistible proof of the vast improvement of which
the senses are capable, is the education of the deaf and
dumb, and the blind ; which proceeds upon the principle
that, after one sense is taken away, the others may be
made much more acute in their exercise, and much more
extensive in their employment. The sense of touch be-
came so acute in Professor Saunderson, who had been
blind from one year old, that he could discover with the

ON THE POWERS OF EXTERNAL PERCEPTION. 65

greatest exactness the slightest inequality of surface, and
could distinguish, in the most finished works, the slight-
est oversight in the polish. In the cabinet of medals at
Cambridge he could single out the Roman medals with
the utmost exactness. When any object passed before
his face, though at some distance, he discovered it, and
eould guess its size with considerable accuracy. When
he walked, he knew when he passed by a tree, a wall, or
a house. His ear had become so accurate from habit,
that he could not only recognize those with whom he
was acquainted, by the sound of their voices, but could
judge with the utmost accuracy of the size of any room
into which he was conducted.

The most singular instance of this substitution of one
sense for another, and the degree of perfection to which
particular senses can be carried, is recorded in the Trans-
actions of the Manchester Society, from whence I have
taken it. " John Metcalf, a native of the neighborhood
of Manchester, became blind," says Dr. Bew, " at a very
early age, so as to be quite unconscious of light and its
various effects. This man passed the younger part of
his life as a wagoner, and occasionally as a guide during
the night in intricate roads, when the tracks were cov-
ered with snow. Strange as this may appear to those
who can see, the employment he has since undertaken is
still more extraordinary ; it is one of the last to which
we should ever suppose a blind man would turn his atten-
tion ; — his present occupation is that of a projector and
surveyor of highways in difficult and mountainous parts.
With the assistance only of a long staff, I have several
times met this man traversing the roads, ascending preci-
pices, exploring valleys, and investigating their several
extents, forms, and situations, so as to answer his design
in the best manner. The plans which he designs, and
the estimates which he makes, are done in a manner pe-
culiar to himself, and of which he can not well convey
the meaning to others. His abilities, nevertheless, in
this way are so great, that he finds constant employ-
ment. Most of the roads over the Peak in Derbyshire
have been altered by his direction, particularly those in
the vicinity of Buxton ; and he is at this time construct-

66 LECTURE IV.

ing a new one between Wilmslow and Congleton, with a
view to open a communication with the great London
road, without being obliged to pass over the mountains."

To these very remarkable cases, may be added that
of Stanley the organist; the blind at Paris, who are
taught to read, write, and print ; and the equally extra-
ordinary Institution for the Deaf and Dumb, which I
dare say many persons here present have visited. All
these valuable and useful institutions, which do honor to
the ingenuity and humanity of man, merely avail them-
selves of that superfluity of senses (if I may use the ex-
pression) which nature has given us, and make those
which survive, do the duties of that which is deceased.
It seems, at first sight, very singular that a blind child
should be taught to read ; but observe what the common
process is with every child : a child sees certain marks
upon a plain piece of paper, which he is taught to call A,
B, C ; but if you were to raise certain marks in relief
upon pasteboard, as you may of course do, and teach a
blind child to call these marks which he felt A, B, C, a
blind child would as easily learn his alphabet by his fin-
gers as another would do by his eyes, and might go on
feeling through Homer or Virgil as we do by persevering
in looking at the book. Just in the same manner, I should
not be surprised if the alphabet could be taught by a se-
ries of well-contrived flavors ; and we may even live to
see the day when men may be taught to smell out their
learning, and when a fine scenting day shall be (which it
certainly is not at present) considered as a day peculiarly
favorable to study.

A curious question may be agitated as to the resem-
blance of the senses to each other. All the ideas of see-
ing bear a resemblance to each other, and all of hearing,
and so forth ; or do we only conceive them to resemble
each other because they enter the mind by the same
channel ? Is there any more resemblance in the taste
of vinegar and the taste of a peach, than there is between
the taste of vinegar and the sound of an iEolian harp ?
I am very much inclined to think there is not ; and that
the only reason of supposing a resemblance is, that they
affect the same organ. I believe there is a much great-

ON THE POWERS OF EXTERNAL PERCEPTION 67

er analogy between those ideas of every sense which
produce a similar tone of mind, whether of excitement,
or soothing, or dislike, or horror, than there is between
ideas of the same sense which stand in very different de-
grees of favor with the mind. The resemblance seems
to be much more intimate between soft sounds, fragrant
smells, smooth surfaces, pleasant tastes, and refreshing
colors, than between soft sounds and horrible crashes,
smooth surfaces and lacerating inequalities, pleasant
tastes and caustic bitterness, refreshing color and sable
gloom.

In mere sensation, the mind appears to be very nearly
passive : when the organ is in a free and healthy state,
it is impressed by outward objects without any choice of
ours. Whoever walks out into the country, can not
avoid seeing the color of the grass and the shape of the
trees to which his eyes are directed. He has not sensa-
tions because he chooses to have them, but they come
upon him till he removes the organ, and for a time de-
prives it of its powers. f *

% %: zfa ^ % ^p ^p tP

One of the most important branches of this subject of
sensation is, the distinction between those sensations
which are really derived from the sense itself, and those
which are connected with them by mere association.
We say we hear a bell ring when in fact it is utterly
impossible we should do so, for a bell is an object of
sight and touch ; and we might as well say that we
heard a color, or heard a thick substance. The fact is,
we hear only a sound, which constant experience has
led us to refer to a bell as its cause. We smell that
something is burning, in the same manner. Burning is
an object of sight, and can not be smelt ; but that odor
can be smelt w r hich experience has taught us to connect
with the phenomena of burning. So that what we are
at first apt to 'consider and to call simple sensations are
in fact accompanied by, and involved with, numberless
other sensations, which experience has combined to-
gether. Our senses would be comparatively of small

f [Four pages of manuscript are here wanting.]

68 LECTURE IV.

importance to us but for these rapid, compound, and
indissoluble associations ; so that a man becomes to have
a sort of sixth sense, compounded of all the others, and
exercising, in a single act, their aggregate perfections.
A child can hear, and see, and feel, as well as a man ;
but he exercises these senses without connecting them
with all that their intelligences imply. The case is pre-
cisely the same with men skilled in any art or profession,
and others ignorant of it ; — the difference between them
is in those intimate associations of sensation which one
has formed and the other not. I can see out at sea as
well as a sailor ; but he pronounces that object to be a
three-decked ship in which I can neither distinguish
mast, or deck, or any thing else. We both see precisely
the same thing, — a brown mass of a certain magnitude.
It was to him, when first he went to sea, a brown lump
also ; long experience has taught him, that this is the
appearance of a man-of-war. I have had no experience,
and it is to me only a simple sensation, i" see only the
object; he sees the thing signified. There are, in the
case of vision, a prodigious variety of sensations which
we suppose ourselves to derive from the eye, and which
are, in fact, derived from the touch. It will appear very
singular to those who have never reflected on these sub-
jects, when I say, that we can neither see the distance
of any objects, nor their size, nor their figure ; and yet
there is nothing which science has more clearly proved.
The eye originally sees nothing but color and surface.
A man born blind and suddenly restored to sight would
not have the least conception of the distance of objects ;
all objects, whether far or near, w r ould appear to be near
to his eye. This was long imagined to be the fact, and
was afterward proved to be so, in the memorable case
of the young man who was couched by Cheselden. He
actually made this mistake, and conceived the pictures
on the opposite wall to be quite close to his eye. If the
eye can see nothing but color and surface, why should
the alteration of color and surface give the idea of dis-
tance ? A color half as bright, and a surface half as
great, do not necessarily imply a distance proportion-
ally greater. We might have been so constituted as

ON THE POWERS OF EXTERNAL PERCEPTION. 69

that an object should have become fainter the nearer it
approached. The fact is, we have determined by ex-
perience that these signs to the eye, of fainter color and
diminished surface, are inseparably connected with dis-
tance, and that bodies are nearer to the touch when they
are brighter to the eye : therefore the moment we see
brightness we think of proximity, and so imagine we
see that a thing is near ; and the moment the color be-
comes confused we think of remoteness, and so imagine
we see that a thing is remote. It is by rendering color
more languid and confused, that painters can represent
objects at a very different distance upon the same flat
canvas. The mere diminution of the magnitude of an
object would not have the effect of making it appear at
a greater distance. For if, in a cattle piece, the artist
were to make one cow ten times as little as all the rest,
the animal would by no means appear ten times as dis-
tant from the eye, but would be taken for a calf in the
foreground instead of a cow in the distant scenery.

Dr. Reid quotes a very curious observation made by
Bishop Berkeley in his travels through Italy and Sicily,
which, by the by, I rather believe he performed on foot.
He observed that, in those countries, cities and palaces
seen at a great distance appeared to him nearer by
several miles than they really were ; and he very judi-
ciously imputed it to this cause, — that the purity of that
air gave to very distant objects a degree of brightness
and distinctness which, in the grosser air of his own
country, belonged only to those which are near. It
would be curious to know whether Italians are apt to
make the reverse of the bishop's observation in this
country, and to ascertain what the apparent distance is,
according to their estimation, from London to Kensing-
ton, during a thick fog in this pleasant month of Decem-
ber. This mode of discovering distance by the distinct-
ness or indistinctness of color, is the reason why we
mistake the size of objects in a fog. A little gentleman
who understands optics, may always be sure to enjoy a
temporary elevation in a fog ; and by walking out in that
state of the weather, will be quite certain of being taken
for a man six feet high ; for the indistinctness of color

70 LECTURE IV.

first makes us consider him to be at a much greater
distance than he really is, and then a man who appears
so big at the supposed distance of 300 yards, we can not
but judge to be one of the tallest and most robust of
men. Secondly, another mode in which we determine
the distance of objects, is by changing the form of the
eye. Nature has given us the power of adapting this
organ to certain distances by contracting one set of
muscles, and to other distances by contracting another
set. As to the manner in which this is done, anatomists
are not agreed ; but whatever be the manner, it is cer-
tain that young people have commonly the power of
adapting their eyes to all distances of the object, from
six or seven inches to fifteen or sixteen feet, so as to
have perfect and distinct vision at any distance within
these limits. Now, place an object at the distance of
six inches from the eye, and gradually remove it to six-
teen or seventeen feet, you will find that all the muscles
of the eye are employed all that time in altering the
shape of the eye, and accommodating it to different
distances ; so that, by long experience, the efforts I am
compelled to make in order to see at these different dis-
tances become themselves the signs of these distances ;
and if any person were wounded in these muscles about
the eye, so as to disturb his usual efforts to obtain dis-
tinct vision, he would lose his guide of distance, and
become unable to see as well as before, though precisely
the same appearances would be presented to his eye.

A third mode by which we acquire the notion of dis-
tance is, the inclination of the eyes toward each other.
A line drawn through the center of the eye to the
retina, and produced beyond it, is called the axis of the
eye ; and it is plain that the inclination of these lines
toward each other must vary as the distance of the ob-
jects varies toward which they are directed. Of this
inclination we are not conscious ; but we are conscious
of the effort employed in making it ; and this effort, as
well as the others of which I have been last speaking,
becomes the sign of the distance of objects. It is for
this reason that those who have lost the sight of one eye
are apt, even within arm's length, to make mistakes in

ON THE POWERS OF EXTERNAL PERCEPTION. 71

the distance of objects which are easily avoided by those
who see with two eyes ; though, after some time, in
persons blind of one eye, this inclination of the axes
ceases to be a criterion of distance, and these mistakes
are avoided. This inclination of the optic axes is the
principal obstacle to complete deception in the art of
painting. The coloring (one mode by which we deter-
mine distance) may be perfect, and may give us the
notion of an object being at the distance of many miles ;
but, unfortunately, the figure of the eye, and u the incli-
nation of the axes, are set for the distance of two or
three yards (the real space between the eye and the
picture), so that the mind, wanting one of its signs of dis-
tance, is far from being completely deceived. In order
to remove this defect, connoisseurs in painting look at a
picture with one eye, through a tube, which excludes
the view of all other objects. By this means, the incli-
nation of the eyes toward each other (one method by
which we judge of the deception) is prevented. Dr.
Reid proposes, as an improvement, this method, — that
the aperture of the tube next the eye should be as small
as a pin-hole ; because then the other mode of judging
of distances, the conformation of the eye, is avoided,
and we have no means left of judging of the distances
but the light and the color, which are in the power of
the painter. When the optic axes are, on account of
the great distance of objects, nearly parallel, so that to
look at an object still more distant requires no fresh
effort, our power of judging of distances entirely ceases.
This is the reason why the sun, moon, planets, and fixed
stars appear to be all at the same distance, as if they
touched the concave surface of a great sphere. The
sphere itself is at that distance beyond which all objects
affect the eye in the same manner.

Another mode in which we determine the distance of
objects is by referring them to those intervening objects
whose distance is known. We are so much accustomed
to measure with our eye the ground which we travel,
and to compare the judgments of distance formed by
sight with our experience or information, that we learn
by degrees in this manner to form a more accurate

72 LECTURE IV.

judgment of the distance of terrestrial objects than we
could do by any of the means above mentioned. It is
for want of some intervening objects that it is so diffi-
cult to measure distances by the eye up in the air, out
at sea, or on extensive plains. This mode of estimating
distance accounts for the superior apparent magnitude
of the moon in the horizon : for, first, its distance seems
greater on account of the known distance of the terres-
trial objects that intervene ; and where the visible
magnitude is the same, the real magnitude of objects is
always determined to be in proportion to the distance.

The proof of this being the real solution of the diffi-
culty is, that if the horizontal moon be viewed through
a tube which excludes all terrestrial objects, its appear-
ance is precisely the same as at any other time.

The last method by which we determine the distance
of objects is by their visible magnitude. By experience,
I know what figure a man or any other known object
makes to my eye at the distance of ten feet ; I perceive
the gradual diminution of this visible figure at the dis-
tance of twenty, forty, one hundred feet, till it vanish
altogether : hence a certain visible magnitude of a known
object becomes the sign of a certain determinate dis-
tance, and carries along with it the conception and be-
lief of that distance.

I shall say nothing here of the moral method of meas-
uring distances ; — the distance from home to school,
in the days of our youth, being generally double the dis-
tance from school to home ; and so forth with all other
passions which quicken or retard the feeling of time.

It is just the same with the cubical magnitudes of
bodies. We think we see that a body is thick and round;
it is quite certain that we see neither the one nor the
other, for the eye can see nothing but plain surfaces ;
but then w r e learn from experience that certain different
appearances of light or shade upon plain surfaces are
constantly connected with those feelings of bodies which
we call round and thick. Just in the same manner it is
probable that the notions w T hich the ear has of distance
-and position are entirely the result of experience ; and
that a person deaf from his birth, and suddenly cured.

ON THE POWERS OF EXTERNAL PERCEPTION. 73

would be quite ignorant from what quarter, and from
what distance, sound originated. Thus we see that the
senses soon learn to lay aside their own homely and
barren language, and to speak in a more elegant and
universal dialect ; and we see that man, endowed with
the senses he now is, and deprived of the power of con-
necting their notices together by indissoluble associa-
tions, would have risen very little above the rank of the
lower animals. All the labors of the human mind point
and tend toward the same process which has been
carried on in our early infancy with respect to associated
sensation, — so to connect together, by copious induction,
the sign with the thing signified, that the one may
suggest the other with the certainty and velocity of
sensation.

The phenomena of double vision and inverted images
I must, for fear of protracting my lecture too long, en-
tirely pass over ; referring those whose curiosity may be
excited on these subjects to Bishop Berkeley's Essay
on Vision, Dr. Porterfield on the Eye, Dr. Wells's Essay
on Vision, and Dr. Reid's admirable first work on the
Human Mind. To prove, in some measure, how much
of our sight is original, and how much acquired, and
to illustrate therefore a great deal of what I have
said throughout this lecture, I shall read to you the
famous case of a young man born blind, and suddenly
restored to his sight by undergoing the operation of
couching.

A young gentleman, who was born with two cata-
racts upon each of his eyes, was, in 1728, couched by
Mr. Cheselden, and by that means for the first time
made to see distinctly. " At first," says the operator,
" he could bear but very little light, and the things he
saw he thought extremely large ; but upon seeing
things larger, those first seen he conceived less, never
being able to imagine any lines beyond the bounds he
saw. The room he was in, he said, he knew to be but
part of the house, yet he could not conceive that the
whole house would look bigger.

" Though we say of this gentleman that he was blind,
as we do of all people who have ripe cataracts, yet they

D

74 LECTURE IV.

are never so blind from that cause but that they can dis-
cern day from night, and, for the most part, in a strong
light, distinguish black, white, and scarlet : but they can
not perceive the shape of any thing ; for the light by
which these perceptions are made, being let in obliquely
through the aqueous humor, or the anterior surface of
the crystaline humor, by which the rays can not be
brought into a focus upon the retina, they can discern in
no other manner than a sound eye can through a glass
of broken jelly, where a great variety of surfaces so dif-
ferently refract the light, that the several distinct pencils
of rays can not be collected by the eye into their proper
foci ; wherefore the shape of an object in such a case
can not be discerned at all, though the color may : and
thus it was with this young gentleman, who, though he
knew those colors asunder, in a good light, yet, when he
saw them after he was couched, the faint ideas he had of
them before, were not sufficient for him to know them
by afterward ; and therefore he did not think them the
same which he had before known by those names.

" When he first saw, he was so far from making any
judgment about distances, that he thought all objects
whatever touched his eyes (as he expressed it), as what
he felt did his skin ; and thought no objects so agreeable
as those which were smooth and regular, though he could
form no judgment of their shape, or guess what it was in
any object that was pleasing to him. He knew not the
shape of any thing, nor any one thing from another, how-
ever different in shape or magnitude ; but upon being
told what things were whose form he before knew from
feeling, he would carefully observe that he might know
them again ; but having too many objects to learn at
once, he forgot many of them, and (as he said) at first
learned to know, and again forget, a thousand things in
a day. One particular only, though it may appear tri-
fling, I will relate. Having often forgot which was the
cat and which the dog, he was ashamed to ask ; but
catching the cat (which he knew by feeling), he was ob-
served to look at her steadfastly, and then, setting her
down, said, ' So, Puss ! I shall know you another time/

" We thought he soon knew what pictures represented

ON THE POWERS OF EXTERNAL PERCEPTION. 75

which were shown him; but we found afterward we
were mistaken, for, about two months after he was
couched, he discovered at once they represented solid
bodies, when to that time he considered them only as
party-colored planes, or surfaces diversified with variety
of paints : but even then, he was no less surprised, — ex-
pecting the pictures would feel like the things they repre-
sented ; and was amazed when he found those parts
which, by their light and shadow, appeared now round
and uneven, felt only flat like the rest, — and asked which
was the lying sense, feeling or seeing.

" In a year after seeing, the young gentleman being
carried upon Epsom Downs, and observing a large
prospect, he was exceedingly delighted with it, and
called it a new kind of seeing."

FRAGMENT OF LECTURE V.

ON CONCEPTION.

* * * * * before the

mind can gaze upon the scene with any portion of tran-
quillity and composure. This mistake of conception for
sensation is also the best key to the phenomena observed
in madness. A madman has the conception of all the
pageantry of a court, and so may any man in his senses ;
the difference is, the one knows it to be only a creation
of his mind, the other really believes he sees dukes, and
marquises, and all the splendor of a real court. If he is
not very far gone, he pays some attention to the objects
of sense about him, and tells you that he is confined in
this sorry situation by the perfidy and rebellion of his
subjects. As the disease further advances, he totally
neglects the objects of his senses ; — does not see that he
sleeps on straw and is chained down, but abandons
himself wholly to the creations of his mind, and riots in
every extravagance of thought. This, though by far
the most common species of insanity, is not the only one.
There are some persons quite rational in their percep-
tions, who are considered as deranged only from a
morbid association of ideas ; as in the instance of the
patient mentioned in Mr. Haslam's book, who persevered
in a vegetable diet because, he said, roast and boiled
meat felt the most exquisite pain while any person was
devouring them.

The mistaking of conceptions for sensations appears
also to be the proper explanation of what passes in our
minds during sleep. To consider sleep aright, we must
divide it into stages. In profound sleep, there is no

ON CONCEPTION. 77

evidence that we think at all. When we have been
exhausted with great fatigue or acute pain, we often lie
motionless for hours, without the smallest recollection
that a single idea has passed through our minds: the
periods of sleeping and waking appear to be consecutive
instants of time. In this state of sleep it seems as if
every operation of the mind were entirely suspended ;
and in the instance of those who have taken quantities
of opium, or become drowsy from long journeys over
snow, it seems to have a great tendency to death. We
frequently dream in our sleep without recollecting the
slightest feature of our dreams when we wake. It
would appear at first, that processes of thought which
have made such faint impressions on the memory must
have been the slightest and most disconnected of all
dreams ; and yet the most rational and systematic
dreamers — those who walk in their sleep — have seldom
or ever the most distant recollection that they have been
dreaming at all.

In the common state of sleep, where we dream with-
out stirring, or, at least, without walking about, there
seems to be, first, a great diminution of the power of the
will over the body, but by no means a total suspension
of that power : for a person much agitated in his dreams
can cry out, and therefore subject the organs of speech
to his will ; or he can toss about his hands and feet, and
so subject those parts of his body to his will ; but, how-
ever, the influence of the will upon the body, though not
wholly suspended, is certainly considerably weakened.
In this sort of sleep it is still less suspended over the
mind, for a man makes a bargain in his dreams, and
examines the terms of the bargain, and dwells upon one
part of it with some accuracy; he argues in his sleep, not
merely repeating, as has been said, arguments which
have occurred to him in his waking hours, but inventing
new ones, with some pains and attention. I mention
these circumstances in opposition to those who have
contended that the influence of the will is entirely
suspended in sleep. I should think diminished would
be a better word, — for suspended it certainly is not in
the body, and still less so in the mind ; though its power

78 FRAGMENT OF LECTURE V.

is incomparably less than in our waking hours. But the
most striking phenomenon in our sleep is that which
I have shown to take place in madness — the confusion
between our sensations and conceptions. I may think
when I am awake of a chariot drawn by tigers ; but I
know then, it is merely a thought. When I am in a
revery, I am in a confused state between doubt and
belief of its existence. When I am asleep, I take this
thought for a reality ; and as our sensations follow one
another in a regular and established order, and our con-
ceptions are very loosely connected together, this is the
reason of all the absurdity and incongruity of our
dreams. Indeed, sense and nonsense, congruity and in-
congruity, are only determined by the outer world ; and
we consider our conceptions to be wild or rational only
as they correspond with it.

According as sleep is more or less perfect, sensations
do or do not produce an effect upon the mind, exactly
the same as in revery or in madness. A person may, in
some cases, sleep so soundly, that the firing a pistol close
to his ear will not rouse him; — at other times the
slightest sensation of light or noise will rouse him. A
sort of intermediate state between these two is that
where the sensation comes to the mind in so imperfect a
state, that it produces some effect upon the current of
conceptions without correcting them. If there is a
window left open, and the cold air blows in, the sufferer
may think himself on the top of Mount Caucasus, buried
in the snow ; or the cat making a noise shall immediately
transport him in imagination to the Opera.

The most singular phenomenon respecting sleep is
somnambulism, or walking in the sleep. The instances
are innumerable of men who have walked along the
ridges of houses in their sleep ; have got up, dressed
themselves, taken pen, ink, and paper, have written very
rationally and connectedly, and acted precisely as they
would have done had they been awake. Out of this
mass of histories I shall make a short extract from a
well-authenticated one, reported by a Physical Society
at Lausanne. It is the case of Devaux, a lad about
thirteen years of age, who lived in the town of Vevay.

ON CONCEPTION. 79

He did not walk in his sleep every nignt, but passed
sometimes six or seven weeks, without a fit of somnam-
bulism. Before the fit begins he utters broken words,
sits up in his bed, abruptly begins to talk with more
coherence, then rises, and goes wherever the nature of
his dream prompts him. Having risen one night with
the intention of eating grapes, he left the house, went
through the town, and passed on to a vineyard, where
he expected good cheer. He was followed by several
persons, who kept at a distance from him, one of whom
fired a pistol, the noise of which immediately awoke
him, and he fell down in a fit. Once he was observed
dressing himself in the dark. His clothes were on a
large table mixed with those of some other persons. At
last a light was brought : he separated the clothes and
dressed himself with sufficient precision. Another time
he got out of bed and finished a piece of writing, in
order, as he said, to please his master. It consisted of
three kinds of writing, text, half-text, and small writing,
each of them performed with the proper pen. He drew,
in the corner of the same paper, the figure of a hat.
He then asked for a penknife, to take out a blot of ink
which he had made between two letters ; and he erased
it without injuring either. Lastly, he made some calcu-
lations with great accuracy.

Now, in this case of Devaux's, and in all such cases
of somnambulism, there is an approach to the awaking
state of the mind : they afford an intermediate step
between sleep and vigilance, and differ only from mad-
ness in the time of their duration. For in somnambu-
lism the will has recovered great part of its dominion
over the body and mind which it had lost in perfect
sleep ; for we see that a somnambulist walks about,
and thinks, and reasons, and acts, with a great share of
precision. The difference between a somnambulist and
a man awake, is, that the first distinguishes between his
sensations and perceptions only in part, the latter en-
tirely. Devaux got up and wrote a copy for his master,
— he saw the pen and ink, and the writing, and various
other things, as plainly as if he had been awake ; but he
did not attend to the appearance of the room, the beds,

80 FRAGMENT OF LECTURE V.

and the faces about him ; he most probably thought he
was in school, with his school-fellows about him, and so
far he was under the influence of his conceptions. This
is just the case with innumerable madmen we see in
Bedlam. Somnambulism continued would, so far as I
can see, differ nothing from madness. Dreaming differs
from madness only in the diminution of the power of
the will ; excepting that there are very few madmen in
Bedlam so mad as a dreamer. There seems also to be
a certain connection between the augmented power of
conception and the diminished power of will ; so that
a man becomes, in sleeping, motionless, exactly as he
becomes mad, and regains his power of moving as he re-
gains his power of moving for a rational purpose. This
happens, luckily enough for dreamers, who would other-
wise infallibly break their limbs every time they dreamed ;
and for the somnambulist, who, when he can move about,
has acquired a considerable share of reason : so that we
may perceive, if these observations be true, the following
phenomena to take place, exactly in proportion as the
outward senses lose their power, and the conceptions
acquire a greater vigor than is natural to them : —
revery, absence, somnambulism, madness, and sleep ;
and by reversing the scale, the conceptions gradually
lose their force, and the sensations gain it.

A similar mistake is often seen to take place between
the ideas of memory and those of conception ; they are
in many instances confounded together. Children are
often detected, in falsehoods which evidently originate
from this cause : they have, not learned to distinguish
between their memory and their conception, and there-
fore believe they have seen and heard things which they
have only fancied. In the same manner, very old men,
approaching to their second infancy, are apt to confound
what they have only conceived, with what they have
remembered ; and for this cause to become somewhat
unintelligible to those who converse with them.

Nature has probably made a strong original difference
between our sensations and conceptions ; but whatever
the original difference may be, it is considerably strength-
ened by habit. Everv vear we live, till our faculties

ON CONCEPTION. 81

decline, the difference becomes more and more consider-
able, and is, of course, much less remarkable in infancy
than in manhood. This I take to be the reason why
children can amuse themselves so well and so long with
dolls, and talk to them as if they were alive : not that I
suppose the deception is ever perfect, but that their con-
ceptions approaching much nearer to their sensations,
communicate more of the interest of real life. As the
child gets older, and the difference between these two
classes of ideas more wide, the wooden darling is tossed
aside, because the conception has become a more lan-
guid and uninteresting representative of reality. There
seems to be a regular process carried on in the mind
throughout its whole existence, by which ideas of
memory are converted into ideas of conception. If a
poet writes two or three hundred verses, very many of
the combinations of words, perhaps whole verses, will
be faithful copies of what he has once remembered, and
which, divested of all the marks of their origin, have re-
appeared to the writer as productions of his own brain.
In the same manner, in a fancy landscape, or in grounds
laid out by a man of taste, many of the combinations
are in all probability copies of real scenes, which the
person who introduced them could once have referred
to some particular spot, but have now become his own
property, from an inability to discover their former
master, — like domestic animals which run away into
the woods, and belong to whoever can catch them.

I shall mention only one more fact respecting concep-
tion, and it is a curious one, for which no reason can be
given but that such is the constitution of our nature ; — I
mean, the great facility we all exhibit of conceiving the.
impressions of one sense better than those of another.
It is, for instance, much easier to conceive any sight,
than to conceive a taste, or a smell, or a feeling, or a
sound. Sight is indeed so much the favorite and im-
pressive sense, that almost the whole language of meta-
physics is borrowed from it. Let any person attempt to
conceive the smell or the taste of a melon, — they will
find their conceptions of those sensations extremely faint ;

D*

82 FRAGMENT OF LECTURE V.

but they will without difficulty form a clear conception
of its figure and color.

To epitomize then the tedious account I have given of
this class of ideas, we must remember the threefold divi-
sion of ideas with which I began — ideas of the outward
senses, ideas we conceive in our mind, and ideas we re-
member. We must recollect that when ideas of the
senses are little heeded, and the conceptions of the mind
acquire the force of realities, then we are said to be
absent, or to be in a revery, or we are under the in-
fluence of great passions, or asleep, or somnambulists, or
madmen. There is less difference between ideas of
sense and conceptions in our infancy than in our mature
age, when the difference is widened by experience ; and
this difference again becomes less, when the effects of
experience are lost in extreme old age. We conceive
some objects of sense better than others.

Men differ in their power of lively conception, but
more in their habits of attention ; but conception is in
all men much strengthened by habit. Lastly, ideas of
memory fade away, and appear in a renovated shape, as
the mere creatures of the brain. These are the faint
and imperfect notices of the great operations which are
passing within us : the practical inference from them is,
while we give vigor, extent, and variety to our concep-
tions, by cultivating an ardent curiosity for knowledge,
to repress their dangerous vivacity by a cool and steady
appeal to the realities of life ; to cherish this reproductive
faculty, as the source of eloquence, poetry, and wit ; but
so to cherish it that we will govern it, and even exact
from it a ready obedience to the natural majesty of truth.
He who can thus manage his mind has two worlds before
him instead of one : he can contemplate and act ; and,
dispelling the vision of a rich and creative mind, can
come down into the world of realities to observe with
steadfastness, and to act with consistency.

FRAGMENT OF LECTURE VI.

ON MEMORY.

* * * * * He obtains all

the convenience which he does obtain by the reference
of individual transactions to certain general heads ; and
thus, by knowing only the nature of any transaction he
wishes to refer to, and by seeking for it under its appro-
priate division, it is found with facility and dispatch.

Mr. Stewart conceives (and, as it appears to me, with
great justice) that the decay of memory observable in
old men, proceeds as frequently from the very little in-
terest they take in what is passing around them, as in
any bodily decay by which their powers of mind are
weakened : — " In so far as this decay of memory which
old age brings along with it, is a necessary consequence
of a physical change in the constitution, or a necessary
consequence of a diminution of sensibility, it is the part
of a wise man to submit cheerfully to the lot of his
nature. But it is not unreasonable to think, that some-
thing may be done by our own efforts, to obviate the in-
conveniences which commonly result from it.

" If individuals who, in the early part of life, have
weak memories, are sometimes able to remedy this de-
fect by a greater attention to arrangement in their trans-
actions, and to classification among their ideas, than is
necessary to the bulk of mankind, might it not be possi-
ble, in the same way, to ward off, at least to a certain
degree, the encroachments which time makes on this
faculty ? The few old men who continue in the active
scenes of life to the last moment, it has often been re-
marked, complain, in general, much less of a want of

84 FRAGMENT -OF LECTURE VI.

recollection than their cotemporaries. This is undoubt-
edly owing, partly, to the effect which the pursuits of
business must necessarily have in keeping alive the
power of attention. But it is probably owing also to
new habits of arrangement, which the mind gradually
and insensibly forms from the experience of its growing
infirmities. The apparent revival of memory in old men,
after a temporary decline (which is a case that happens
not unfrequently) seems to favor this supposition.

" One old man I have, myself, had the good fortune to
know, who, after a long, an active, and an honorable life,
having begun to feel some of the usual effects of ad-
vanced years, has been able to find resources in his own
sagacity, against most of the inconveniences with which
they are commonly attended ; and who, by watching his
gradual decline with the cool eye of an indifferent ob-
server, and employing his ingenuity to retard its prog-
ress, has converted even the infirmities of age into a
source of philosophical amusement."*

I believe that this old gentleman was Dr. Reid ; and
he certainly is a memorable instance of a victory gained
over the infirmities of age. I have heard, from a friend
of his, that at the age of seventy he was as keen and
eager about the then new discoveries of chemistry as if
he had been just beginning his career of science. Such
facts appear to me to be of the greatest importance, as
they evince what may be done by a noble effort of reso-
lution. A modern writer, who at one time made some
noise, says, that it is men's own faults if they die ; that
dying is a mere trick, which may be avoided with a little
resolution. I can not quite go so far as this, but I am
convinced, that it is for a long time in every man's
power to determine whether he will be old or not. The
outward marks of age we are all of us very willing to de-
fer ; forgetting that we may wear the inward bloom of
youth with true dignity and grace, and be ready to learn,
and eager to give pleasure to others, to the latest moment
of our existence.

In the same manner, memory may be wonderfully

* Stewart's Elements of Philosophy, chap. vi. p. 416.

ON MEMORY. 85

strengthened by referring single facts and observations
to one simple principle ; and by these means we can
either remember the principle by remembering the fact,
or the fact by remembering the principle.

It is very common to hear people complain that they
can not remember what they read ; and the reason is very
obvious, — that they are perpetually admitting into their
minds a string of insulated events without arranging
them with any method, which may be instrumental to
their reproduction. Let us take a few instances of this.
The first shall be in history, and in the history of re-
ligion. I believe the rule which all wise and moderate
men adopt, with respect to toleration, at present, is this
— that no man ought to undergo persecution for his re-
ligious opinions, if they have not a tendency to disturb
the public peace : that point secured, the rest is left to
discussion only ; and every man must adjust his faith as
his understanding enlightens, and his conscience governs
him, without the fear of human punishment. An igno-
rance of this wise and simple rule, and of the proper limits
of human interference, is a key to all the bloody and
atrocious persecutions which for three hundred years
desolated Europe. Again, nobody now thinks that
Providence perpetually and immediately interferes to
punish vice — that if any man, for instance, commits a
murder this night, Providence will work a miracle to dis-
cover it ; but the rude idea of religion in all barbarous
ages is, that Divine justice is like human justice, and that
guilt is immediately overtaken by punishment. This
mistake may be traced in the legal institutions of almost
all barbarous people, and is the principle to which in-
numerable separate facts may be referred at all periods
of the world. It is, of course, the origin of the corsenet,
of the ordeal, of the /uvdgog among the Greeks, the judicial
tournament in the days of chivalry, and of the trial by
red water on the coast of Africa. France has fallen un-
der the dominion of a single man, so did Rome, so have
innumerable free countries. The cause, in many in-
stances, has been precisely the same — that anarchy
which has been produced by the licentiousness of the
people, and which has rendered them an easy prey to the

80 FRAGMENT OF LECTURE VI.

first ambitious man who could ingratiate himself with
the army. Such examples are very trite, and what
might occur to any one ; I only mention them to illus-
trate the importance of philosophical arrangement to
memory, and to show how much more likely facts are to
reappear when we want them, if we have clustered
numbers of them together as illustrative of a simple prin-
ciple, than if they are promiscuously scattered through
the understanding without any such connecting tie. The
most striking instance of it is botany. What but the
most precise and rigorous classification could possibly
enable a botanist to remember one thousandth part of
the plants which at present he can remember with unerr-
ing certainty ?

A considerable degree of importance has been attached
by some writers on education to the scheme of artificial
memory ; the general intention of which is, not to
impress the thing to be remembered directly upon the
memory, but to impress something easier than the
original matter, which, by arbitrary association, shall
recall it to the mind. Thus, the Battle of Hastings in
the year life. What is the meaning of the year life ?
Why, I stands for 1, i for 0, / for 6, and e for 6 ; and so
we have the year 1066 : and by extending this idea we
may put numbers into whole lines, and convey a system
of chronology in a sort of poem. Another plan is, to
keep in mind a house, with the apartments of which we
are minutely acquainted, and, in speaking, to arrange
our subject according to a preconcerted association,
between the division of the matter and the house. This
was a very common custom among the speakers of
antiquity, though at present it seems to be quite disused.
I confess, myself, I have no very high opinion of these
inventions : the expression of facts in verse, as is done
in those doggerel rhymes by which we remember the
days of the month, appears to be the best of them ; but,
in general, the remedy is much worse than the disease,
and the difficulty less difficult than the assistance which
is to overcome it. They accustom the mind to light and
foolish associations, which have no foundation in nature ;
they convey an exaggerated notion of the difficulty of

ON MEMORY. 87

remembering, when such inventions are resorted to to
effect it, — increase the disgust which such difficulties are
apt to inspire, — weaken that confidence in the strength
of memory, and the intense habits of labor founded upon
that confidence, which breed up a race of great scholars,
and cany men through the most intricate and extended
inquiries.

Upon nearly the same principles there can, I should
think, be very little doubt, of the bad effects of habitually
writing down those facts and events which we wish to
remember ; — they are taken down for future considera-
tion, and consequently receive very little present con-
sideration. From a conviction that our knowledge can
be thus easily recalled, it is never systematically arranged
or deeply engraved , we atone for the passive indolence
of the mind by the mechanical labor of the hands, and
write a volume without remembering a line. The de-
sirable and the useful thing is, that we should carry our
knowledge about with us, as we carry our health about
with us ; that the one should be exhibited in the alacrity
of our actions, and the other proved by the vigor of our
thoughts. I would as soon call a man healthy who had
a physician's prescription in his pocket, which he could
take and recover from, as I would say that a man had
knowledge who had no other proof of it to afford, than a
pile of closely-written commonplace books.

Every body knows the importance of exercising the
memory ; and it seems to be very useful to carry it to
the extent of getting select passages by heart ; — it
insensibly adds to the riches and the copiousness of
fancy, and communicates, perhaps, a habit of attentive
reading. This practice is carried to a prodigious extent
in our public schools, and furnishes men with materials
for w T it and imagination through the whole of their lives.
At the same time this practice is not without its danger,
and that a very considerable one. He who trusts to
what he can produce of other men's imagination is apt
to lose the flower and freshness of his own, and gradually
to sacrifice the vigor and originality of his mind. There
is a homely old English proverb, that an ounce of mother
is worth a pound of clergy ; and I confess, from my

88 FRAGMENT OF LECTURE VI.

own feelings, I like better a very common production
which seems to be the natural growth of the soil, than
that exotic luxuriance which art has cherished, and
which harmonizes so badly with every thing which
surrounds it.

But the great secret above all others for remembering,

is, to work the mind up to a certain pitch of enthusiasm

#######

* # # # # # #

FRAGMENT OF LECTURE VII.

ON IMAGINATION.

# # # These are conceptions. If 1 gather

together in my mind various implements of war, and
create out of them the picture of that armor in which I
clothe the hero of my poem, this is an act of imagina-
tion ; so that imagination involves conception, though it
is not involved by it. *

***** their respective
arts to any high degree of excellence without a con-
siderable share of the faculty of imagination, and to them
have the efforts of this faculty commonly been confined ;
but there appear to be various exertions of mind perfectly
similar to these, and to which we never think of applying
the same word. For instance, in mechanical invention,
no one would ever think of saying that Mr. Bramah had
displayed a great deal of imagination in his patent locks,
or that there was any poetry in a steam engine ; and
yet the process in one and the other composition does
not seem to be very dissimilar. Mr. Gray, in speaking
of Mars, gives to his lance the epithet of thirsty, —

" On Thracia's hill the Lord of War
Shall curb the fury of his car,
And drop his thirsty lance at thy command."

Now let us see how this epithet of thirsty got into the
mind of Mr. Gray. Perhaps he stole it (I believe he
did) ; but if he did, we have only to reflect how it got
into the mind of the person whose original property it
was. But let us suppose it to have been Mr. Gray's
own. By what process did he acquire it ? He began

90 FRAGMENT OF LECTURE VII.

thinking about lances, and all the common notions
attached to that of a lance rushed into his mind, — bloody,
fierce, cruel, thick, thin, murderous, rapid, brazen, iron,
&c. &c. At last came, all of a sudden, the epithet of
thirsty; and the poet, perceiving its relation to his
original substantive, and its aptitude to excite poetical
feelings in the mind, immediately made it a part of his
poem. If we follow out any long and complicated
description in a poem, the same process will be found
constantly to have taken place. Now is there any thing
very different from this which takes place with respect
to mechanical invention ? You want to work the rod
of a pump by means of a horizontal axis which revolves
above it. In considering; how it is to be effected,
innumerable ideas connected with machinery crowd into
the mind. A thousand projects are proposed, examined,
and rejected, till at last the idea of a crank is hit upon.
Its relation to the other parts is immediately perceived,
and it becomes a part of the machine. Now in these
two processes of mind, which have received such differ-
ent names, I am not able to discover any difference ;
— association brings together in each, a great number
of connected ideas, and judgment discovers some relation
between them which was not at first obvious : the only
difference is in the ultimate objects which they have in
view. The imagination of a poet proposes to itself to
give pleasure by the sublime and beautiful ; that of a
mechanical inventor has in view to promote some pur-
pose of utility. It is precisely the same with every sort
of invention. Pythagoras, in inventing his media of
proof for the forty-seventh proposition, went to work
very much as a poet goes to work, — first raising a multi-
tude of images by dint of association, and then selecting
and applying them from the perception of their relations.
In the same manner with wit : the object differs, and the
rapidity differs ; but the process of the understanding is
the same as that w r e designate by the word imagina-
tion, — ideas are gathered together, connected by the
lighter sort of association, and then that particular rela-
tion which constitutes wit is discovered. Indeed all the
processes I have specified have received the common

ON IMAGINATION. 91

name of invention, though they have not been called by
that of imagination : we speak of poetical, mechanical,
geometrical invention, and of the invention of wit ;
though we use the word imagination in a much more
restricted sense.

Imagination of all sorts, though originally dealt out
with very different degrees of profusion to different men,
is capable of great improvement from habit. As great
part of imagination depends upon association, and the
power of association always increases with practice,
men acquire extraordinary command over particular
classes of ideas, and are supplied with copiousness of
materials for their collection, to which inexperienced
and unpracticed minds can never attain. What a pro-
digious command, for instance, over all those associations
which are productive of wit, must the head wit of such
a city as this or Paris have acquired in twenty years of
facetiousness, — having been accustomed, for that space
of time, to view all the characters and events which have
fallen under his notice with a reference to these rela-
tions ! What an enormous power of versification must
Pope have gained, after his translations of the Iliad and
the Odyssey ! so that no combination of words or inflec-
tion of sounds, could possibly have been new to him ;
and he must have almost meditated in hexameters, and
conversed in rhyme. What a powerful human being
must that man become who, beginning with original
talents, has been accustomed, for half his life, to the
eloquence of the bar or the senate ! No combination of
circumstances can come before him for which he is un-
prepared ; he is always ready for every purpose of
defense and attack ; and trusts, with the most implicit
confidence, to that host of words and images which he
knows from long experience will rise up at any moment
of exigence for his ornament and support.

Imagination is improved by imitation ; as in living
with men who are eminent for that faculty, or by read-
ing those works in which its greatest efforts are to be
found. It was the practice of some notorious man (I
believe Bossuet.) to read a hundred lines of Homer before
he sat down to compose ; and I have no doubt but that

92 FRAGMENT OF LECTURE VII.

he might have derived from such a practice unusual
energy and elevation, — that it must have filled his mind
full of great images, and diffused heat and light over all
that he thought and wrote.

The imagination (which delights to be fed by the eye)
is cherished and inflamed by great sights. Nothing can
be more striking and solemn than the first sight of a
mountainous country to a person who has been only
accustomed to the sleepy flatness of an alluvial district.
The abruptness and audacity of the scene, the swelling
and magnitude of nature, the universal appearances of
convulsion, the magnificent disorder and ruin, astonish a
feeling mind, and not only fill it with grand images at
present, but awaken its dormant life, rouse slumbering
irritability, and tell those whom nature has made orators
and poets that it is time to fulfil the noble purposes for
which they were born.

Mere magnitude — any thing vast — affects the imagina-
tion and sets it to work. A first-rate ship of war, or
a Gothic cathedral, the waters of an immense river dis-
charging itself into the sea, the boundless prospect of the
earth below, that we gain from the top of a high moun-
tain, an expanse of stormy sea, the concave of heaven in
a serene night, — all these examples of immensity are
ever found to have a powerful effect upon this faculty of
imagination. The imagination is stimulated by novelty ;
and so much so, that whatever other cause affects it, it
must be joined # # # # #

FRAGMENT OF LECTURE VIII.

ON REASON AND JUDGMENT.

***** we connect

together two ideas in early life, which we find it abso-
lutely impossible to separate in advanced age ; — we
reason from them as from intuitive truths, and upon
such topics are utterly impregnable to every attempt at
conviction. These are the principal obstacles to the
progress of the reasoning faculty ; and they are disor-
ders of the mind so common, and so detrimental, that I
shall speak of them more at large in my next and con-
cluding lecture. When they happen not to exist, or
when they have been guarded against by a good under-
standing or a superior education, the conclusions we
draw upon most subjects are sound and just : for if a
question be discussed coolly, if the parties have no other
interest in its termination but that of truth, if they thor-
oughly understand the terms they employ, if they are
well informed upon the related facts, and if they are,
both, in the habit of guarding against accidental asso-
ciations, the conclusions in which they terminate will
probably be the same : there is hardly any difference of
opinion not resolvable into one or the other of these
causes. Here, then, we have an outline of that manly
and high-prized reason, which, under the blessing and
direction of God, arranges the affairs of this world ;
which cools passion, unravels sophism, enlightens igno-
rance, and detects mistake ; which wit can not discon-
cert, nor eloquence bear down ; which appeals always
to realities, and ever follows truth without insolence and
without fear. For it is disgraceful to the immortal un-

94 FRAGMENT OF LECTURE VIII.

derstanding of man to be governed by sounds, and to
be the slave of that speech which was given to do him
service. It is beneath the loftiness of his faculties to
take his notions of truth from the little hamlet in which
he was bred, or from the fashions of thought which
prevail in his hour of life : for truth dwells not on the
Danube, or the Seine, or the Thames ; she is not this
thing to-day, and to-morrow another ; but she is of all
places, and all times the same, in every change and in
every chance, — as firm as the pillars of the earth, and
as beautiful as its fabric. Add to the power of discov-
ering truth, the desire of using it for the promotion of
human happiness, and you have the great end and ob-
ject of our existence. This is the immaculate model of
excellence that every human being should fix in the
chambers of his heart ; which he should place before his
mind's eye from the rising to the setting of the sun, —
to strengthen his understanding that he may direct his
benevolence, and to exhibit to the world the most beau-
tiful spectacle the world can behold, of consummate vir-
tue guided by consummate talents. " For some men,"
says Lord Bacon, " think that the gratification of curi-
osity is the end of knowledge ; some, the love of fame ;
some, the pleasure of dispute ; some, the necessity of
supporting themselves by their knowledge : but the real
use of all knowledge is this, — that we should dedicate
that reason which was given us by God to the use and
advantage of man."

LECTURE IX.

ON THE CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING.

It appeared to me rather singular when I sat down to
consider this subject, that one man should get up in the
midst of six hundred others, and tell them how they
were to conduct their understandings. One man may
very fairly be supposed to have made greater attain-
ments in botany or in chemistry than others, because he
may have dedicated to those sciences a greater portion
of his time and attention than others have done ; but he
who speaks of the conduct of the understanding, speaks
of a science to which every one who hears him has been
apprenticed as well as himself, and therefore his right of
instructing can not rest upon the same clear and indis-
putable grounds.

Having reared up this edifice of modesty, and stopped
a little while to admire it, I immediately proceed to
demolish it by the following reflections : — that to ad-
vance opinions is not to prescribe laws ; that knowledge
is only extended and confirmed by this contribution of
individual sentiments, which every one is free to reject
or to adopt ; and that nothing would ever be de>ne if
every person were to enter into a nice calculation of his
own deficiencies, and the talents and acquisitions of
others, to which they were contrasted ; that the only
practical way was, to say what you have to say at once,
leaving it to time and chance whether your present
opinions will be strengthened or refuted by further ob-
servation. I beg leave to renew an observation which
I made in my first lecture, — that in saying any thing is
so, I only mean to say J think it is so. I have a rational
conviction of the difficulty of such subjects ; but to ex-

96 LECTURE IX.

press that sense of the difficulty on all occasions would
be tiresome, and inconsistent with the energy of public
speaking.

As the general object of my lecture will be to guard
against the most ordinary and flagrant errors committed
in the conduct of the understanding, and as I see no use
in preserving any order in their enumeration, I shall put
them down only in the order in which they happen to
occur to me.

The first thing to be done in conducting the under-
standing is precisely the same as in conducting the
body, — to give it regular and copious supplies of food,
to prevent that atrophy and marasmus of mind, which
comes on from giving it no new ideas. It is a mistake
equally fatal to the memory, the imagination, the powers
of reasoning, and to every faculty of the mind, to think
too early that we can live upon our stock of understand-
ing, — that it is time to leave off business, and make use
of the acquisitions we have already made, without trou-
bling ourselves any further to add to them. It is no
more possible for an idle man to keep together a certain
stock of knowledge, than it is possible to keep together
a stock of ice exposed to the meridian sun. Every day
destroys a fact, a relation, or an inference ; and the only
method of preserving the bulk and value of the pile is by
constantly adding to it.

The prevailing idea with young people has been, the
incompatibility of labor and genius ; and therefore, from
the fear of being thought dull, they have thought it nec-
essary to remain ignorant. I have seen, at school and
at college, a great many young men completely de-
stroyed by having been so unfortunate as to produce an
excellent copy of verses. Their genius being now
established, all that remained for them to do was, to act
up to the dignity of the character ; and as this dignity
consisted in reading nothing new, in forgetting what,
they had already read, and in pretending to be ac-
quainted with all subjects by a sort of off-hand exertion
of talents, they soon collapsed into the most frivolous
and insignificant of men. " When we have had con-
tinually before us," says Sir Joshua Reynolds, " the

ON THE CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING. 97

great works of art, to impregnate our minds with kin-
dred ideas, we are then, and not till then, fit to produce
something of the same species. We behold all about us
with the eyes of those penetrating observers whose
works we contemplate ; and our minds, accustomed to
think the thoughts of the noblest and brightest intellects,
are prepared for the discovery and selection of all that is
great and noble in nature. The greatest natural genius
can not subsist on its own stock : he who resolves never
to ransack any mind but his own, will be soon reduced
from mere barrenness to the poorest of all imitations ; —
he will be obliged to imitate himself, and to repeat what
he has before repeated. When we know the subject
designed by such men, it will never be difficult to guess
what kind of work is to be produced." There is but
one method, and that is hard labor; and a man who will
not pay that price for distinction, had better at once
dedicate himself to the pursuits of the fox, — or sport
with the tangles of Nesera's hair, — or talk of bullocks,
and glory in the goad ! There are many modes of being
frivolous, and not a few of being useful ; there is but one
mode of being intellectually great.

It would be an extremely profitable thing to draw up
a short and well-authenticated account of the habits of
study of the most celebrated writers with whose style of
literary industry we happen to be most acquainted. It
would go very far to destroy the absurd and pernicious
association of genius and idleness, by showing them that
the greatest poets, orators, statesmen, and historians, —
men of the most brilliant and imposing talents, — have
actually labored as hard as the makers of dictionaries
and the arrangers of indexes ; and that the most ob-
vious reason why they have been superior to other men
is, that they have taken more pains than other men.
Gibbon was in his study every morning, winter and
summer, at 6 o'clock ; Mr. Burke was the most laborious
and indefatigable of human beings ; Leibnitz was never
out of his library ; Pascal killed himself by study ; Cicero
narrowly escaped death by the same cause ; Milton was
at his books with as much regularity as a merchant or
an attornev, — he had mastered all the knowledge of his

E 8

98 LECTURE IX.

time ; so had Homer. Raffaelle lived but thirty-seven
years ; and in that short space carried the art so far
beyond what it had before reached, that he appears to
stand alone as a model to his successors. There are
instances to the contrary ; but, generally speaking, the
life of all truly great men has been a life of intense and
incessant labor. They have commonly passed the first
half of life in the gross darkness of indigent humility,
— overlooked, mistaken, contemned, by weaker men, —
thinking while others slept, reading while others rioted,
feeling something within them that told them they
should not always be kept down among the dregs of the
world ; and then, when their time was come, and some
little accident has given them their first occasion, they
have burst out into the light and glory of public life,
rich with the spoils of time, and mighty in all the labors
and struggles of the mind. Then do the multitude cry
out " a miracle of genius !" Yes, he is a miracle of
genius, because he is a miracle of labor ; because in-
stead of trusting to the resources of his own single mind,
he has ransacked a thousand minds ; because he makes
use of the accumulated wisdom of ages, and takes as his
point of departure the very last line and boundary to
which science has advanced ; because it has ever been
the object of his life to assist every intellectual gift of
nature, however munificent, and however splendid, with
every resource that art could suggest, and every atten-
tion diligence could bestow.

If we are to read, it is a very important rule in the
conduct of the understanding, that we should accustom
the mind to keep the best company, by introducing it
only to the best books. But there is a sort of vanity
some men have, of talking of, and reading, obscure half-
forgotten authors, because it passes as a matter of course,
that he who quotes authors which are so little read, must
be completely and thoroughly acquainted with those
authors which are in every man's mouth. For instance,
it is very common to quote Shakspeare ; but it makes a
sort of stare to quote Massinger. I have very little
credit for being well acquainted with Virgil ; but if I
quote Silius Italicus, I may stand some chance of being

ON THE CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING. 99

reckoned a great scholar. In short, whoever wishes to
strike out of the great road, and to make a short cut to
fame, let him neglect Homer, and Virgil, and Horace,
and Ariosto, and Milton, and, instead of these, read and
talk of Fracastorius, Sannazarius, Lorenzini, Pastorini,
and the thirty-six primary sonneteers of Bettinelli ; —
let him neglect every thing which the suffrage of ages
has made venerable and grand, and dig out of their
graves a set of decayed scribblers, whom the silent ver-
dict of the public has fairly condemned to everlasting
oblivion. If he complain of the injustice with which
they have been treated, and call for a new trial with
loud and importunate clamor, though I am afraid he
will not make much progress in the estimation of men
of sense, he will be sure to make some noise in the crowd,
and to be dubbed a man of very curious and extraordi-
nary erudition.

Then there is another piece of foppery which is to be
cautiously guarded against — the foppery of universality,
— of knowing all sciences and excelling in all arts, —
chemistry, mathematics, algebra, dancing, history, rea-
soning, riding, fencing, Low Dutch, High Dutch, natural
philosophy, and enough Spanish to talk about Lope de
Vega : in short, the modern precept of education very
often is, " Take the Admirable Crichton for your model ;
I would have you ignorant of nothing !" Now my advice,
on the contrary, is, to have the courage to be ignorant
of a great number of things, in order to avoid the
calamity of being ignorant of every thing. I would
exact of a young man a pledge that he would never read
Lope de Vega ; he should pawn to me his honor to ab-
stain from Bettinelli, and his thirty-five original sonnet-
eers ; and I would exact from him the most rigid securi-
ties that I was never to hear any thing about that race
of penny poets who lived in the reigns of Cosmo and
Lorenzo di Medici.

I know a gentleman of the law who has a thorough
knowledge of fortifications, and whose acquaintance
with bastions, and counterscarps, and parallels, is per-
fectly astonishing. How impossible it is for any man
not professionally engaged in such pursuits to evince a

100 LECTURE IX.

thorough acquaintance with them, without lowering him-
self in the estimation of every man of understanding who
hears him ! How thoroughly aware must all such men
be, that the time dedicated to such idle knowledge has
been lost to the perfection of those mental habits, any
one of which is better than the most enormous load of
ill- arranged facts !

It is not only necessary that a man should choose the
best books, to whatever department of knowledge he
desires to dedicate himself, but it is expedient he should
aim at the highest departments of knowledge, — that he
should not content himself, as some men are apt to do,
throughout the whole of his life, with his school habits
of acquiring languages and cultivating imagination, but
that he should attend to the principles of civil policy, —
the practices by which nations become rich, the rules by
which their relations with other countries should be
arranged ; the intellectual nature of man, — of what his
understanding consists, and what are the great facts
observable of his active and moral powers. I venerate
the ancient languages, and our English universities
where they are preserved, as much as man can do ; but
I really do not see why at least a co-ordinate importance
might not be given to subjects of such value as those of
which I have been speaking.

In looking to the effects of education upon after-life
(which is the only mode of determining whether educa-
tion is good or bad), I do allow it to be of great conse-
quence that a young man should be a good scholar ; but
I also beg leave humbly to contend, that it is not with-
out its beneficial consequences, that the minds of our
young men may be early awakened to such subjects as
the philosophy of law, the philosophy of commerce, the
philosophy of the human mind, and the philosophy of
political government. If an equal chance be given to
these subjects and to the classics, if they are all equally
honored and rewarded, the original diversities and ca-
prices of nature will determine a sufficient number of
minds to each channel ; on the contrary, if a young man,
from his earliest days, hears nothing held in honor and
estimation but classical reading, — if we have no other

ON THE CONDUCT OP THE UNDERSTANDING. 101

idea of ignorance than false quantities, and no other idea
of excellence than mellifluous longs and shorts, the bias
of his mind is fixed, — his line of distinction is taken ; he
either despises these sciences because he knows them
not, or, if he have the ability to discover his deficiencies,
and the candor to own them, he feels the want of that
early determination, that instinctive zeal, which no cir-
cumstance in after-life can ever divert or extinguish.

We do not want readers, for the number of readers
seems to be very much upon the increase, and mere
readers are very often the most idle of human beings.
There is a sort of feeling of getting through a book, — of
getting enough out of it, perhaps, for the purpose of con-
versation, — which is the great cause of this imperfect
reading, and the forgetfulness which is the consequence
of it : whereas the ambition of a man of parts should be,
not to know books, but things ; not to show other men
that he has read Locke, and Montesquieu, and Bec-
caria, and Dumont, but to show them that he knows the
subjects on which Locke and Beccaria and Dumont
have written. It is no more necessary that a man should
remember the different dinners and suppers which have
made him healthy, than the different books which have
made him wise. Let us see the result of good food in
a strong body, and the result of great reading in a full
and powerful mind.

If you measure the value of study by the insight you
get into subjects, not by the power of saying you have
read many books, you will soon perceive that no time is
so badly saved, as that which is saved by getting through
a book in a hurry. For if, to the time you have given,
you had added a little more, the subject would have been
fixed on your mind, and the whole time profitably employ-
ed ; whereas, upon your present arrangement, because
you would not give a little more, you have lost all. Be-
sides, this is overlooked by rapid and superficial readers,
— that the best way of reading books with rapidity is, to
acquire that habit of severe attention to what they con-
tain, that perpetually confines the mind to the single ob-
ject it has in view. When you have read enough to
have acquired the habit of reading without suffering

102 LECTURE IX.

your mind to wander, and when you can bring to bear
upon your subject a great share of previous knowledge,
you may then read with rapidity : before that, as you
have taken the wrong road, the faster you proceed the
more you will be sure to err. Upon this subject of the
wandering of the mind, I shall read a passage from Mr.
Locke. " That there is constant succession and flux of
ideas in our minds, I have observed in the former part
of this Essay, and every one may take notice of it him-
self. This, I suppose, may deserve some part of our
care, in the conduct of our understandings ; and I think
it may be of great advantage, if we can, by use, get that
power over our minds as to be able to direct that train of
ideas, that so, since there will no new ones perpetually
come into our thoughts by a constant succession, we
may be able, by choice, so to direct them, that none may
come in view but such as are pertinent to our present in-
quiry, and in such order as may be most useful to the dis-
covery we are upon ; or, at least, if some foreign and un-
sought ideas will offer themselves, that yet we might be
able to reject them, and keep them from taking off our
minds from its present pursuit, and hinder them from run-
ning away with our thoughts quite from the subject in
hand."*

A sincere attachment to truth, moral and scientific, is
a habit which cures a thousand little infirmities of mind,
and is as honorable to a man who possesses it, in point
of character, as it is profitable in point of improvement.
There is nothing more beautiful in science than to hear
any man candidly owning his ignorance. It is so little
the habit of men who cultivate knowledge to do so, —
they so often have recourse to subterfuge, nonsense, or
hypothesis, rather than to a plain manly declaration,
either that they themselves do not understand the sub-
ject, or that the subject is not understood, — that it is re-
ally quite refreshing to witness such instances of philo-
sophical candor, and it creates an immediate preposses-
sion in favor of the person in whom it is observed.

Next to this we have the abuse of words, and the fal-

* Vol. iii. p. 410.

ON THE CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING. 103

lacy of associations ; compared with which, all other
modes of misconducting the understanding are insignifi-
cant and trivial. What do you mean by what you say ?
Are you prepared to give a clear account of words which
you use so positively, and by the help of which you form
opinions that you seem resolved to maintain at all haz-
ards ? Perhaps I should astonish many persons by put-
ting to them such sort of questions : — Do you know what
is meant by the word nature ? Have you definite no-
tions of justice ? How do you explain the word chance ?
What is virtue ? Men are every day framing the rash-
est propositions on such sort of subjects, and prepared
to kill and to die in their defense. They never, for a
single instant, doubt of the meaning of that, which was
embarrassing to Locke, and in which Leibnitz and Des-
cartes were never able to agree. Ten thousand people
have been burned before now, or hanged, for one proposi-
tion. The proposition has no meaning. Looked into and
examined in these days, it is absolute nonsense. A man
quits his country in disgust at some supposed violation
of its liberties, sells his estates, and settles in America.
Twenty years afterward, it occurs to him, that he had
never reflected upon the meaning of the word, — that he
has packed up his goods and changed his country for a
sound.

Fortitude, justice, and candor, are very necessary in-
struments of happiness ; but they require time and exer-
tion. The instruments I am now proposing to you you
must not despise — gramma?*, definition, and interpreta-
tion — instruments which overturn the horrible tyranny
of adjectives and substantives, and free the mind from
the chains of that logocracy in which it is so frequent-
ly enslaved, Now have the goodness to observe what I
mean. If you choose to quarrel with your eldest son,
do it ; if you are determined to be disgusted with the
world, and to go and live in Westmoreland, do so ; if
you are resolved to quit your country and settle in Amer-
ica, go ! — only, when you have settled the reasons upon
which you take one or the other of these steps, have the
goodness to examine whether the words in which those
reasons are contained have really any distinct meaning;

104 LECTURE IX.

and if you find they have not, embrace your first-born,
forget America, unloose your packages, and remain
where you are !

There are men who suffer certain barren generalities
to get the better of their understandings, by which they
try all their opinions, and make them their perpetual
standards of right and wrong : as thus — Let us beware
of novelty ; The excesses of the people are always to be
feared : or these contrary maxims — that there is a
natural tendency in all governments to encroach upon
the liberties of the people ; or, that every thing modern
is probably an improvement of antiquity. Now what
can the use be of sawing about a set of maxims to which
there are a complete set of antagonist maxims ? For of
what use is it to tell me that governors have a tendency
to encroach upon the liberties of the people ? and is that
a reason why you should throw yourself systematically
in opposition to the government ? What you say is
very true ; what you do is very foolish. For is there
not another maxim quite as true, that the excesses of the
people are to be guarded against ? and does not one evil
a priori require your attention as well as another ?
The business is, to determine, at any one particular
period of affairs, which is in danger of being weakened,
and to act accordingly, like an honest and courageous
man ; not to lie like a dead weight at one end of the
beam, without the smallest recollection there is any
other, and that the equilibrium will be violated alike
whichever extreme shall preponderate. In the same
manner, a thing is not good because it is new, or good
because it is old ; — there is no end of retorting such
equally true principles : but it is good because it is fit
for the purpose for which it was intended, and bad be-
cause it is not.

A great deal of talent is lost to the world for the want
of a little courage. Every day sends to their graves a
number of obscure men who have only remained obscure
because their timidity has prevented them from making
a first effort ; and who, if they could only have been
induced to begin, would in all probability have gone
great lengths in the career of fame. The fact is, that

ON THE CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING. 105

in order to do any thing in this world worth doing, we-
must not stand shivering on the bank, and thinking of
the cold and the danger, but jump in and scramble
through as well as we can. It will not do to be per-
petually calculating risks, and adjusting nice chances :
it did all very well before the Flood, when a man could
consult his friends upon an intended publication for a
hundred and fifty years, and then live to see its success
for six or seven centuries afterward ; but at present a
man waits, and doubts, and hesitates, and consults his
brother, and his uncle, and his first cousins, and his
particular friends, till one fine day he finds that he is
sixty-five years of age, — that he has lost so much time
in consulting first cousins and particular friends, that
he has no more time left to follow their advice. There
is such little time for over-squeamishness at present, the
opportunity so easily slips away, the very period of life
at which a man chooses to venture, if ever, is so con-
fined, that it is no bad rule to preach up the necessity, in
such instances, of a little violence done to the feelings,
and of efforts made in defiance of strict and sober cal-
culation.

With respect to that fastidiousness which disturbs the
right conduct of the understanding, it must be observed
that there are two modes of judging of any thing : one,
by the test of what has actually been done in the same
way before ; the other, by what we can conceive may be
done in that way. Now this latter method of mere
imaginary excellence can hardly be a just criterion,
because it may be in fact impossible to reduce to prac-
tice what it is perfectly easy to conceive : no man,
before he has tried, can tell how difficult it is to manage
prejudice, jealousy, and delicacy, and to overcome all
that friction which the world opposes to speculation.
Therefore, the fair practical rule seems to be, to com-
pare any exertion, by all similar exertions which have
preceded it, and to allow merit to any one w T ho has
improved, or, at least, who has not deteriorated the
standard of excellence, in his own department of know-
ledge. Fastidious men are always judging by the other
standard ; and, as the rest of the understanding can not

106 LECTURE IX.

fill up in a century what the imagination can sketch out
in a moment, they are always in a state of perpetual
disappointment, and their conversation one uniform
tenor of blame. At the same time that I say this, I beg
leave to lift up both my hands against that pernicious
facility of temper, in the estimation of which every thing
is charming and delightful. Among the smaller duties
of life I hardly know any one more important than that
of not praising where praise is not due. Reputation is
one of the prizes for which men contend : it is, as Mr.
Burke calls it, " the cheap defense and ornament of
nations, and the nurse of manly exertions ;" it produces
more labor and more talent than twice the wealth of a
country could ever rear up. It is the coin of genius ;
and it is the imperious duty of every man to bestow it
with the most scrupulous justice and the wisest economy.
I am about to recommend a practice in the conduct
of the understanding which I dare say will be strongly
objected to, by many men of the world who may over-
hear it, and that is, the practice of arguing, or, if that
be a word in bad repute, of discussing. But then I have
many limitations to add to such recommendation. It is
as unfair to compel a man to discuss with you, who
can not play the game, or does not like it, as it would be
to compel a person to play at chess with you under
similar circumstances : neither is such a sort of exercise
of the mind suitable to the rapidity and equal division
of general conversation. Such sort of practices are, of
course, as ill-bred and as absurd as it would be to pull
out a grammar and dictionary in a general society, and
to prosecute the study of a language. But when two
men meet together who love truth, and discuss any
difficult point with good nature and a respect for each
other's understandings, it always imparts a high degree
of steadiness and certainty to our knowledge ; or, what
is nearly of equal value, and certainly of greater diffi-
culty, it convinces us of our ignorance. It is an exer-
cise grossly abused by those who have recourse to it,
and is very apt to degenerate into a habit of perpetual
contradiction, which is the most tiresome and most
disgusting in all the catalogue of imbecilities. It is an

O^N THE CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING. 107

exercise which timid men dread, — from which irritable
men ought to abstain ; but which, in my humble opinion,
advances a man, who is calm enough for it, and strong
enough for it, Jar beyond any other method of employing
the mind. Indeed, a promptitude to discuss, is so far a
proof of a sound mind, that, whenever we feel pain and
alarm at our opinions being called in question, it is
almost a certain sign that they have been taken up
without examination, or that the reasons which once
determined our judgment have vanished away.

I direct these observations only to those who are
capable of discussing ; for there are many who have not
the quickness and the presence of mind necessary for it,
and who, in consequence, must be compelled to yield
their opinions to the last speaker. And there is no
question, that it is far preferable to remain under the
influence of moderate errors, than to be bandied about
for the whole of life from one opinion to another, at
the pleasure, and for the sport of superior intelligence.

But other men's understandings are to be made use
of, in the conduct of your own, in many other methods
than in that of discussion. Lord Bacon says, that to
enter into the kingdom of knowledge, we must put on
the spirit of little children ; and if he means that we are
to submit to be taught by whoever can, or will teach us,
it is a habit of mind which leads to very rapid improve-
ment; because a person who possesses it is always
putting himself in a train to correct his prejudices, and
dissolve his unphilosophical associations. The truth is,
that most men want knowledge, not for itself, but for the
superiority which knowledge confers ; and the means
they employ to secure this superiority, are as wrong as
the ultimate object, for no man can ever end with being
superior, who will not begin with being inferior. The
readiest way of founding that empire of talent and
knowledge which is the mistaken end such men propose
to themselves of knowledge, is, patiently to gather from
every understanding that will impart them, the materials
of your future power and importance. There are some
sayings in our language about merit being always united
with modesty, &c. (I suppose because they both begin

103 LECTURE IX.

with an m, for alliteration has a great power over
proverbs, and proverbs over public opinion) ; but I fancy
that in the majority of instances, the fact is directly the
reverse, — that talents and arrogance are commonly
united, and that most clever young men of eighteen or
nineteen believe themselves to be about the level of
Demosthenes, or Virgil, or the Admirable Crichton, or
John Duke of Marlborough : but whatever the fact be
with respect to modesty, and omitting all the popularity
and policy of modesty, I am sure modesty is a part of
talent ; that a certain tendency to hear what others have
to say, and to give it its due weight and importance, is
quite as valuable as it is amiable ; that it is a vast
promoter of knowledge ; and that the contrary habit of
•general contempt, is a very dangerous practice in the
conduct of the understanding. It exists, I am afraid,
commonly in the minds of able men, but they would be
much better without it.

As for general skepticism, the only way to avoid it is,
to seize on some first principles arbitrarily, and not to
quit them. Take as few as you can help, — about a
tenth part of what Dr. Reid has taken will suffice, — but
take some, and proceed to build upon them. As I have
before mentioned, the leading principle of Descartes'
philosophy was, Cogito, ergo sum — " I think, therefore I
exist ;" and having laid this foundation stone, he built an
enormous building, the ruins of whieh lie scattered up
and down among the sciences in disordered glory and
venerable confusion. Some of his disciples, however,
could never get a single step further ; — they admitted
their own existence, but could never deduce any one
single truth from it. One might almost wish that these
gentlemen had disencumbered themselves of this their
only idea, by running down steep places, or walking very
far into profound ponds, rather than that they should
exhibit such a spectacle of stupidity and perversion.

Such sort of questions as the credibility of memory,
and personal identity, are not merely innocent subtilties.
I admit it is quite impossible in practice to disbelieve
either the one or the other : but they excite a suspicion
of the perfect uncertainty of all knowledge : and they

ON THE CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING. 109

often keep young men hesitating and quibbling about the
rudiments of all knowledge, instead of pushing on their
inquiries with cheerfulness and vigor. I am sure I am
not stating an ideal evil ; but I know from actual experi-
ence, that many understandings have been retarded for
years in their prosecution of solid and valuable knowledge,
because they could see no evidence for first principles,
and were unable to prove that which, by the very mean-
ing of the expression, must be incapable of all proof.
They considered the whole as an unstable and unphilo-
sophical fabric, and contracted either an indifference to, or
contempt for, truth. And if you choose to call all
knowledge hypothetical, because first principles are
arbitrarily assumed, you certainly may call it so, if you
please ; but then I only contend that it does quite as
well as if it were not hypothetical, because all the various
errors agree perfectly well together, and produce that
happiness which is the end of knowledge.

It is a very wise rule in the conduct of the under-
standing, to acquire early a correct notion of your own
peculiar constitution of mind, and to become well ac-
quainted, as a physician would say, with your idiosyn-
crasy. Are you an acute man, and see sharply for
small distances ? or are you a comprehensive man, and
able to take in wide and extensive views into your mind ?
Does your mind turn its ideas into wit ? or are you apt
to take a common-sense view of the objects presented to
you ? Have you an exuberant imagination, or a correct
judgment ? Are you quick, or slow ? accurate, or hasty ?
a great reader, or a great thinker? It is a prodigious
point gained if any man can find out where his powers
lie, and what are his deficiencies, — if he can contrive to
ascertain what Nature intended him for : and such are
the changes and chances of the world, and so difficult is
it to ascertain our own understandings, or those of
others, that most things are done by persons who could
have done something else better. If you choose to
represent the various parts in life by holes upon a table,
of different shapes, — some circular, some triangular,
some square, some oblong, — and the persons acting these
parts by bits of wood of similar shapes, we shall generally

110 LECTURE IX.

find that the triangular person has got into the square
hole, the oblong into the triangular, and a square person
has squeezed himself into the round hole. The officer
and the office, the doer and the thing done, seldom fit so
exactly, that we can say they were almost made for
each other.

But while I am descanting so minutely upon the con-
duct of the understanding, and the best modes of ac-
quiring knowledge, some men may be disposed to ask,
" Why conduct my understanding with such endless
care ? and what is the use of so much knowledge ?"
What is the use of so much knowledge ? — what is the use
of so much life ! — what are we to do with the seventy
years of existence allotted to us ? — and how are we to
live them out to the last ? I solemnly declare that, but
for the love of knowledge, I should consider the life of
the meanest hedger and ditcher, as preferable to that of
the greatest and richest man here present : for the fire
of our minds is like the fire which the Persians burn in
the mountains, — it flames night and day, and is immortal,
and not to be quenched ! Upon something it must act
and feed, — upon the pure spirit of knowledge, or upon
the foul dregs of polluting passions. Therefore, when I
say, in conducting your understanding, love knowledge
with a great love, with a vehement love, with a love
coeval with life, what do I say, but love innocence, —
love virtue, — love purity of conduct, — love that which,
if you are rich and great, will sanctify the blind fortune
which has made you so, and make men call it justice,—
love that which, if you are poor, will render your
poverty respectable, and make the proudest feel it unjust
to laugh at the meanness of your fortunes, — love that
which will comfort you, adorn you, and never quit
you, — which will open to you the kingdom of thought,
and all the boundless regions of conception, as an asylum
against the cruelty, the injustice, and the pain that may
be your lot in the outer world, — that which will make
your motives habitually great and honorable, and light
up in an instant a thousand noble disdains at the very
thought of meanness and of fraud ! Therefore, if any
young man here have embarked his life in pursuit of

ON THE CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING. Ill

knowledge, let him go on without doubting or fearing
the event ; — let him not be intimidated by the cheerless
beginnings of knowledge, by the darkness from which
she springs, by the difficulties which hover around her,
by the wretched habitations in which she dwells, by the
want and sorrow which sometimes journey in her train ;
but let him ever follow her as the Angel that guards
him, and as the Genius of his life. She will bring him
out at last into the light of day, and exhibit him to the
world comprehensive in acquirements, fertile in resources,
rich in imagination, strong in reasoning, prudent and
powerful above his fellows, in all the relations and in all
the offices of life.

LECTURE X.

ON WIT AND HUMOR.

The question I have very often had asked me respect-
ing the present subject of my lecture is, what has Wit
to do with Moral Philosophy ? Little or nothing, cer-
tainly, if Moral Philosophy is merely understood prac-
tical Moral Philosophy, or Ethics ; but if the term be
taken as it universally is wherever Moral Philosophy is
taught, — as in contradistinction to Physical Philosophy,
or the philosophy which concerns itself with the laws of
the material world, — then Moral Philosophy will include
every thing which relates to the human mind — of which
mind these phenomena of wit and humor are very strik-
ing peculiarities. But if, though allowed to appertain to
Moral Philosophy because they appertain to the human
mind, they shoufd be considered as very frivolous parts
of that science, this must not, on any account, be allow-
ed to pass for truth. The feeling of the ridiculous pro-
duces an immense effect upon human affairs. It is so
far from being powerless or unimportant, that it has a
strong tendency to overpower even truth, justice, and all
those high-born qualities which have the lawful mastery
of the human mind.

Such sort of subjects are no less difficult than they are
important. I may not always speak on them with the
forms of modesty, but no man can be more thoroughly con-
vinced that I am, of the difficulty with which such inves-
tigations are attended, and of the folly of dogmatizing
upon topics where the best understandings may arrive,
and have arrived, at very opposite conclusions. In ad-
dition to this plea for indulgence, it so happens this year
that I am extremely ill prepared for what I have under-

ON WIT AND HUMOR. 113

taken. To read lectures upon Moral Philosophy is not
a very easy thing under any circumstances ; — to read
them before a mixed audience of both sexes, and for the
first time, are accidents which do not come in diminu-
tion of that difficulty. These difficulties are best over-
come by a little practice. The same indulgence should
be extended to young lecturers and young professors that
is extended to the young of all other animals, — who can
not reasonably be supposed to have arrived at the top of
their cunning, or to have reached the perfection of their
strength. I shall only advertise my hearers, that when
I have finished this lecture I have not finished this sub-
ject ; — I shall have a great deal more to say upon it in
my next lecture, and the two must be taken together, in
order to analyze the ridiculous, and, perhaps, as some
evil-disposed persons may say, to exemplify it.

" Wit," says Dr. Barrow, " is a thing so subtile, so ver-
satile, and so multiform, — appearing in so many shapes,
so many postures, and so many garbs, — so variously ap-
prehended by several eyes and judgments, that it seem-
eth no less hard to settle a clear and certain notion there-
of than to make a portrait of Proteus, or to define the
figure of the fleeting air. Sometime it lieth in pat allu-
sion to a known story, or in seasonable application of a
trivial saying, or in forging an apposite tale ; — sometimes
it playeth in words and phrases, taking advantage of the
ambiguity of their sense, or the affinity of their sound ; —
sometimes it is wrapped in a dress of humorous expres-
sion ; — sometimes it lurketh under an odd similitude ; — •
sometimes it is lodged in a sly question, in a smart an-
swer, in a quirkish reason, in a shrewd intimation, in
cunningly diverting, or cleverly retorting an objection ;
sometimes it is couched in a bold scheme of speech, in a
tart irony, a lusty hyperbole, a startling metaphor, a
plausible reconciling of contradictions, or in acute non-
sense ; — sometimes a scenical representation of persons
or things, a counterfeit speech, a mimical look or ges-
ture, passeth for it ; — sometimes an affected simplicity,
sometimes a presumptuous blunt ness, giveth it being ; —
sometimes it ariseth only from a lucky hitting upon what

114 LECTURE X.

is strange ; — often it consisteth in one knows not what,
and ariseth one knows not how : its ways are unaccount-
able and inexplicable, being answerable to the number-
less rovings of fancy and windings of language. It is, in
short, a manner of speaking out of the plain way, which,
by an uncouthness in conceit or expression, doth amuse
the fancy, stirring in it some wonder, and breeding some
delight. It raiseth admiration, as signifying a nimble sa-
gacity of apprehension, a special felicity of invention, a
vivacity of spirit, and reach of wit more than vulgar.
It seemeth to argue a rare quickness of parts that can
produce such applicable conceits, a notable skill that can
dexterously accommodate them to the purpose before
him, together with a lively briskness of humor, not apt
to damp those sportful flashes of imagination. It pro-
cures delight, by gratifying curiosity with its rarity, by
diverting the mind from its road of serious thoughts, by
instilling gayety and airiness of spirit, and by seasoning
matters, otherwise distasteful and insipid, with an un-
usual and a grateful twang." This is Dr. Barrow's
famous definition of wit, — which is very witty, and
nothing else ! and in which the author has managed as
a man would do, who should take a degree in music by
singing a song, or in medicine by healing a surfeit. He
has exemplified his subject instead of explaining it ; and
given you a specimen, instead of a solution, of wit. It
is surprising what very little has been written in the
English language upon this curious subject. Congreve
has written upon it in the same witty manner as Barrow,
without throwing the smallest light upon the nature of
wit. Cowley says,

" Tell me, oh tell, what kind of thing is -wit,
Thou who master art of it ?
A thousand different shapes it bears,
Comely in thousand shapes appears.
Yonder we see it plain ; and here 'tis now,
Like spirits, in a place, we know not how."

And so he goes on, with a string of witty allusions, for
twenty stanzas, in an ode which Johnson calls inimita-
ble, and which, as a mere piece of poetry of the school

ON WIT AND HUMOR. 115

of the metaphysical poets, certainly is so ; but has
nothing to do with a serious explanation of the subject.
Dryden says of wit, that it is a propriety of thoughts and
words, or thoughts and words elegantly adapted to the
subject ; but there is a propriety of thoughts and words
in one of Blair's Sermons, which I never yet heard
praised for their wit. And the thoughts and words are
elegantly adapted to the subject in Campbell's " Pleas-
ures of Hope," which is something much better than a
witty poem. Pope says of wit,

" True wit is nature to advantage drest T
Oft thought before, but ne'er so -well exprest."

Then the Philippics of Cicero, the Orations of Demos-
thenes, are witty ; Caesar's Commentaries are witty ;
Massillon is one of the greatest wits that ever lived ; the
Oraisons funebres of Bossuet are prodigies of facetious-
ness. Sir Richard Blackmore's notion of wit is, that it
is a series of high and exalted ferments. It very possibly
may be ; but, not exactly comprehending what is meant
by " a series of high and exalted ferments," I do not think
myself bound to waste much time in criticizing the meta-
physics of this learned physician.

The first definition of wit worth noticing is that of
Mr. Locke, which I shall read to you. " How much the
imperfection of accurately discriminating ideas one from
another, lies either in the dullness or faults of the organs
of sense, — or want of acuteness, exercise, or attention in
the understanding, — or hastiness and precipitancy, nat-
ural to some tempers, — I will not here examine : it suf-
ficeth to take notice, that this is one of the operations
that the mind may reflect on and observe in itself. It is
of that consequence to its other knowledge, that, so far
as this faculty is in itself dull, or not rightly made use of,
for the distinguishing one thing from another, so far our
notions are confused, and our reason and judgment dis-
turbed or misled. If, in having our ideas in the memory
ready at hand, consists quickness of parts, — in this of
having them unconfused, and being able nicely to dis-
tinguish one thing from another, where there is but the

116 LECTURE X.

least difference, consists, in a great measure, the exact-
ness of judgment and clearness of reason, which is to be
observed in one man above another. And hence, per-
haps, may be given some reason for that common obser-
vation, that men who have a great deal of wit, and
prompt memories, have not always the clearest judg-
ment or deepest reason : for wit lying mostly in the as-
semblage of ideas, and putting those together with quick-
ness and variety wherein can be found any resemblance
or congruity, whereby to make up pleasant pictures and
agreeable visions in the fancy ; judgment, on the con-
trary, lies quite on the other side, in separating carefully,
one from another, ideas wherein can be found the least
difference, — thereby to avoid being misled by similitude,
and by affinity to take one thing for another. This is a
way of proceeding quite contrary to metaphor and allusion,
wherein, for the most part, lies that entertainment and
pleasantry of wit which strikes so lively on the fancy,
and therefore is so acceptable to all people, — because its
beauty appears at first sight, and there is required no
labor of thought to examine what truth or reason there
is in it. The mind, without looking any further, rests
satisfied with the agreeableness of the picture, and the
gayety of the fancy ; and it is a kind of an affront to go
about to examine it by the severe rules of truth and good
reason, whereby it appears that it consists in something
that is not perfectly conformable to them."* Now this
notion of wit, — that it consists in putting those ideas to-
gether with quickness and variety wherein can be found
any resemblance or congruity, in order to excite pleas-
ure in the mind, — is a little too comprehensive, for it
comprehends both eloquence and poetry. In the first
place, we must exclude the idea of their being put to-
gether quickly, as this part of the definition applies only
to colloquial wit. The " Avare" and the " Tartuffe" of
Moliere, would be witty even though we knew each of
those plays had taken the author a year to compose.
But as for the resemblance and congruity, there is a re-
semblance and congruity in the well-known picture Mr.

* Works, voL i. p. 60.

ON WIT AND HUMOR. 117

Burke has drawn of the Queen of France ; but nobody
can with any propriety call it wittf without degrading it.
The fact is, that the combinations of ideas in which there
is resemblance and congruity, will as often produce the
sublime and the beautiful, as well as the witty ; — a cir-
cumstance to which Mr. Locke does not appear to have
attended, in the very short and cursory notice he has
taken of wit. Addison's papers in the " Spectator" on
this subject are more dedicated to the establishment of a
good taste in wit, than to an analysis of its nature. He
adds to this definition, by way of explanation, that it must
be such a resemblance as excites delight and surprise in
the reader ; but this still leaves the account of wit as it
found it, without discriminating the witty from the sub-
lime and the beautiful, for many sublime and beautiful
passages in poetry entirely correspond with this defini-
tion of wit.

" He scarce had ceas'd, when the superior Fiend
"Was moving toward the shore : his ponderous shield,
Ethereal temper, massy, large, and round,
Behind him cast ; the broad circumference
Hung on his shoulders like the moon, whose orb
Through optic glass the Tuscan artist views
At evening from the top of Fesole,
Or in Valdarno, to descry new lands,
Eivers, or mountains, in her spotty globe.
His spear — to equal which the tallest pine
Hewn on Norwegian hills, to be the mast
Of some great ammiral, were but a wand —
He walk'd with to support uneasy steps
Over the burning marie."

In this picture there certainly is an assemblage of very
grand and very beautiful images, exciting delight and sur-
prise, and gathered together expressly for their resem-
blance ; yet no effect can be more distinct from the feel-
ing of wit than the effect produced by these lines.
" Wit," says Johnson, " may be more rigorously and
philosophically considered as a kind of concordia discors
— a combination of dissimilar images, or discovery of
occult resemblances in things apparently unlike ;" but
if this be true, then the discovery of the resemblance
between diamond and charcoal, between acidification

118 LECTURE X.

and combustion, are pure pieces of wit, and full of the
most ingenious and exalted pleasantry.

It is very little worth while to stop to examine what
Lord Karnes has said upon the subject of wit and
humor: he has said so very little, and that little in so
very hasty a manner, that there is no occasion to delay
the progress of the investigation by dwelling on his
opinions.

The best account in our language of wit and humor
(as far as I know) is to be found in the first volume of
Campbell's Philosophy of Rhetoric. I say the best,
though I must take the liberty of saying that there
appears to me to be very material defects in it. In the
first place he seems to make precisely the same mistake
which all the other definers and describers of wit have
done. " Wit," he says, " is that which excites agreeable
surprise in the mind, by the strange assemblage of re-
lated images presented to it." Now, this account of
wit, as I have before remarked more than* once, is too
extensive, and includes the sublime and the beautiful.
He then adds, that " wit effects its objects three ways :
first, in debasing things pompous ; next in aggrandizing
things mean ; thirdly, by setting ordinary objects (by
means not only remote, but apparently contrary) in a
particular and uncommon point of view." If this three-
fold division be meant as a distinguishing criterion of the
operations of wit, it fails ; for eloquence effects all these
three objects as well as wit : and if it be meant as an ex-
haustive analysis of modes of wit, it is extremely incom-
plete ; for wit may find similitudes for, and relations be-
tween, great objects without debasing them, and do the
same with little objects without exalting them. I may
find a hundred ingenious points of resemblance between
a black beetle and a birchen broom, without adding much
dignity either to the insect or the instrument. I mention
these objections to Dr. Campbell's Essay because it is
my duty to discriminate, though I repeat again, that, as
far as I know, and upon the whole, it is the best account
of these subjects extant in the English language.

Now to begin at the beginning of this discussion, it
is plain that wit concerns itself with the relations which

ON WIT AND HUMOR. 119

subsist between our ideas : and the first observation
which occurs to any man turning his attention to this
subject is, that it can not, of course, concern itself with
all the relations which subsist between all our ideas ;
for then every proposition would be witty ; — The rain
wets me through, — Butter is spread upon bread, — would
be propositions replete with mirth ; and the moment the
mind observed the plastic and diffusible nature of butter,
and the excellence of bread as a substratum, it would
become enchanted with this flash of facetiousness.
Therefore, the first limit to be affixed to that observation
of relations, which produces the feeling of wit, is, that
they must be relations which excite surprise. If you
tell me that all men must die, I am very little struck
with what you say, because it is not an assertion very
remarkable for its novelty ; but if you were to say that
man was like a time-glass, — that both must run out, and
both render up their dust, I should listen to you with
more attention, because I should feel something like sur-
prise at the sudden relation you had struck out between
two such apparently dissimilar ideas as a man and a
time-glass.

Surprise is so essential an ingredient of wit, that no
wit will bear repetition ; — at least the original electrical
feeling produced by any piece of wit can never be re-
newed. There is a sober sort of approbation succeeds
at hearing it the second time, w T hich is as different from
its original rapid, pungent volatility, as a bottle of
champagne that has been open three days is, from one
that has at that very instant emerged from the darkness
of the cellar. To hear that the top of Mont Blanc is
like an umbrella, though the relation be new to me, is
not sufficient to excite surprise ; the idea is so very ob-
vious, it is so much within the reach of the most ordinary
understandings, that I can derive no sort of pleasure from
the comparison. The relation discovered, must be some-
thing remote from all the common tracks and sheep-walks
made in the mind ; it must not be a comparison of color
with color, and figure with figure, or any comparison
which, though individually new, is specifically stale, and
to which the mind has been in the habit of making many

120 LECTURE X.

similar ; but it must be something removed from com-
mon apprehension, distant from the ordinary haunts of
thought, — things which are never brought together in the
common events of life, and in which the mind has dis-
covered relations by its own subtilty and quickness.

Now, then, the point we have arrived at, at present,
in building up our definition of wit, is, that it is the
discovery of those relations in ideas which are calculated
to excite surprise. But a great deal must be taken
away from this account of wit before it is sufficiently
accurate ; for, in the first place, there must be no feeling
or conviction of the utility of the relation so discovered.
If you go to see a large cotton-mill, the manner in which
the large w T ater- wheel below, works the little parts of the
machinery seven stories high, the relation which one
bears to another, is extremely surprising to a person
unaccustomed to mechanics ; but, instead of feeling as
you feel at a piece of wit, you are absorbed in the con-
templation of the utility and importance of such rela-
tions, — there is a sort of rational approbation mingled
with your surprise, which makes the whole feeling very
different from that of wit. At the same time, if we
attend very accurately to our feelings, we shall perceive
that the discovery of any surprising relation whatever,
produces some slight sensation of wit. When first the
manner in which a steam-engine opens and shuts its
own valves is explained to me, or when I at first perceive
the ingenious and complicated contrivances of any piece
of machinery, the surprise that I feel at the discovery of
these connections has always something in it which
resembles the feeling of wit, though that is very soon
extinguished by others of a very different nature.
Children, who view the different parts of a machine not
so much with any notions of its utility, feel something
still more like the sensation of wit when first they per-
ceive the effect which one part produces upon another.
Show a child of six years old, that, by moving the treadle
of a knife-grinder's machine, you make the large wheel
turn round, or that by pressing the spring of a repeating
watch you make the watch strike, and you probably
raise up a feeling in the child's mind precisely similar to

ON WIT AND HUMOR. 121

that of wit. There is a mode of teaching children
geography by disjointed parts of a wooden map, which
they fit together. I have no doubt that the child, in
finding the kingdom or republic which fits into a great
hole in the wooden sea, feels exactly the sensation of wit.
Every one must remember that fitting the inviting pro-
jection of Crim Tartary into the Black Sea was one of
the greatest delights of their childhood ; and almost all
children are sure to scream with pleasure at the dis-
covery.

The relation between ideas which excite surprise, in
order to be witty, must not excite any feeling of the
beautiful. " The good man,'*' says a Hindoo epigram,
" goes not upon enmity, but rewards with kindness the
very being who injures him. So the sandal- wood, while
it is felling, imparts to the edge of the axe its aromatic
flavor." Now here is a relation which would be witty
if it were not beautiful : the relation discovered betwixt
the falling sandal- wood, -and the returning good for evil,
is a new relation which excites surprise , but the mere
surprise at the relation, is swallowed up by the con-
templation of the moral beauty of the thought, which
throws the mind into a more solemn and elevated mood
than is compatible with the feeling of wit.

It would not be a difficult thing to do (and if the limits
of my lecture allowed I would do it) to select from
Cowley and Waller a suite of passages, in order to show
the effect of the beautiful in destroying the feeling of wit,
and vice versa. First, I would take a passage purely
witty, in which the mind merely contemplated the
singular and surprising relation of the ideas ; next, a
passage where the admixture of some beautiful senti-
ment, — the excitation of some slight moral feeling, — .
arrested the mind from the contemplation of the relation
between the ideas ; then, a passage in which the beauti-
ful overpowered still more the facetious, till, at last, it
was totally destroyed.

If the relation between the ideas, to produce wit, must
not be mingled with the beautiful, still less must they be
so with the sublime. In that beautiful passage in Mr.
Campbell's poem of ( ' Lochiel," the wizard repeats these

F

122 LECTURE X.

verses, — which were in every one's mouth when first
the poem was written : —

" Lochiel ! Lochiel ! though my eyes I should seal,
Man can not keep secret what God would reveal.
Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore,
And the coming events cast their shadows before." 1

Now this comparison of the dark uncertain sort of pre-
science of future events implied by the gift of second
sight, and the notice of an approaching solid body by the
previous approach of its shadow, contains a new and
striking relation ; but it is not witty, nor would it ever
have been considered as witty, if expressed in a more
concise manner, and with the rapidity of conversation,
because it inspires feelings of a much higher cast than
those of wit, and, instead of suffering the mind to dwell
upon the mere relation of ideas, fills it with a sort of
mysterious awe, and gives an air of sublimity to the
fabulous power of prediction. Every one knows the
Latin line on the miracle at the marriage-supper in Cana
of Galilee, — on the conversion of water into wine.
The poet says,

" The modest water saw its God, and blusKdF

Now, in my mind, that sublimity w T hich some persons
discover in this passage is destroyed by its wit; it
appears to me witty, and not sublime. I have no great
feelings excited by it, and can perfectly well stop to
consider the mere relation of ideas. I hope I need not
add, that the line, if it produce the effect of a witty con-
ceit, and not of a sublime image, is perfectly misplaced
and irreverent : the intent, however, of the poet, was un-
doubtedly to be serious. In the same manner, whenever
the mind is not left to the mere surprise excited by the
relation of ideas, but when that relation excites any
powerful emotion — as those of the sublime and beautiful,
or any high passion — as anger or pity, or any train of
reflections upon the utility of the relations, the feeling
of wit is always diminished or destroyed. It seems to
be occasioned bv those relations of ideas which excite

ON WIT AND HUMOR. 123

surprise, and surprise alone. Whenever relations excite
any other strong feeling as well as surprise, the wit is
either destroyed, diminished, or the two co-existent feel-
ings of wit and the other emotion may, by careful reflec-
tion, be distinguished from each other. I may be very
wrong (for these subjects are extremely difficult), but I
know no single passage in any author which is at once
beautiful and witty, or sublime and witty. I know
innumerable passages which are intended to be beautiful
or sublime, and which are merely witty ; and I know
many passages in which the relation of ideas is very new
and surprising, and which are not witty because they are
beautiful and sublime. Lastly, when the effect of wit
is heightened by strong sense and useful truth, we may
perceive in the mind what part of the pleasure arises
from the mere relation of ideas, what from the utility of
the precept ; and many instances might be produced,
where the importance and utility of the thing said,
prevents the mind from contemplating the mere relation,
and considering it as wit. For example : in that apoph-
thegm of Rochefoucault, that hypocrisy is a homage
which vice renders to virtue, the image is witty, but all
attention to the mere wit is swallowed up in the justness
and value of the observation. So that I think I have
some color for saying, that wit is produced by those
relations between ideas which excite surprise, and sur-
prise only. Observe, 1 am only defining the causes of a
certain feeling in the mind called wit ; — I can no more
define the feeling itself, than I can define the flavor of
venison. We all seem to partake of one and the other,
with a very great degree of satisfaction ; but why each
feeling is what it is, and nothing else, I am sure I can
not pretend to determine.

Louis XIV. was exceedingly molested by the solicita-
tions of a general officer at the levee, and cried out, loud
enough to be overheard, " That gentleman is the most
troublesome officer in the whole army." " Your Majes-
ty's enemies have said the same thing more than once,"
was the answer. The wit of this answer consists in the
sudden relation discovered in his assent to the King's in-
vective and his own defense. By admitting the King's

124 LECTURE X.

observation, he seems, at first sight, to be subscribing to
the imputation against him ; whereas, in reality, he
effaces it by this very means. A sudden relation is dis-
covered where none was suspected. Voltaire, in speak-
ing of the effect of epithets in weakening style, said, that
the adjectives were the greatest enemies of the substan-
tives, though they agreed in gender, number, and in
cases. Here, again, it is very obvious that a relation is
discovered which, upon first observation, does not appear
to exist. These instances may be multiplied to any ex-
tent. A gentleman at Paris, who lived very unhappily
with his wife, used, for twenty years together, to pass
his evenings at the house of another lady, who was very
agreeable, and drew together a pleasant society. His
wife died ; and his friends all advised him to marry the
lady in whose society he had found so much pleasure.
He said, no, he certainly should not, for that if he mar-
ried her, he should not know where to spend his evenings.
Here we are suddenly surprised with the idea that the
method proposed of securing his comfort may possibly
prove the most effectual method of destroying it. At
least, to enjoy the pleasantry of the reply, we view it
through his mode of thinking, who had not been very
fortunate in the connection established by his first mar-
riage. I have, in consequence of the definition I have
printed of wit in the cards of the Institution, passed one of
the most polemical weeks that ever I remember to have
spent in my life. I think, however, that if my words
are understood in their fair sense, I am not wrong. I
have said, surprising relation between ideas, — not between
facts. The difference is very great. A man may tell
me he sees a fiery meteor on the surface of the sea: he has
no merit in the discovery, — it is no extraordinary act of
mind in him, — any one who has eyes can ascertain this
relation of facts as well, if it really exist ; but to discover
a surprising relation in ideas, is an act of power in the
discoverer, in which, if his wit be good, he exceeds the
greater part of mankind : so that the very terms I have
adopted, imply comparison and superiority of mind. The
discovery of any relation of ideas exciting pure surprise
involves the notion of such superiority, and enhances

ON WIT AND HUMOR. 125

the surprise. To discover relations between facts ex-
citing pure surprise, involves the notion of no such
superiority ; for any man could ascertain that a calf had
two heads if it had two heads : therefore, I again repeat,
let any man show me that which is an acknowledged
proof of wit, and I believe I could analyze the pleasure
experienced from it into surprise, partly occasioned by
the unexpected relation established, partly by the dis-
play of talent in discovering it ; and, putting this posi-
tion synthetically, I would say, whenever there is a
superior act of intelligence in discovering a relation
between ideas, which relation excites surprise and no
other high emotion, the mind will have the feeling of
wit. Why is it not witty to find a gold watch and
seals hanging upon a hedge ? Because it is a mere re-
lation of facts discovered without any effort of mind,
and not (as I have said in my definition) a relation
of ideas. Why is it not witty to discover the relation
between the moon and the tides ? Because it raises
other notions than those of mere surprise. Why are
not all the extravagant relations in Garagantua witty ?
Because they are merely odd and extravagant ; and
mere oddity and extravagance is too easy to excite sur-
prise. Why is it witty, in one of Addison's plays,
where the undertaker reproves one of his mourners for
laughing at a funeral, and says to him, " You rascal,
you ! I have been raising your wages for these two years
past upon condition that you should appear more sorrow-
ful, and the higher wages you receive the happier you
look !" Here is a relation between ideas the discovery
of which implies superior intelligence, and excites no
other emotion than surprise.

It is imagined that wit is a sort of inexplicable visita-
tion, that it comes and goes with the rapidity of light-
ning, and that it is quite as unattainable as beauty or
just proportion. I am so much of a contrary way of
thinking, that I am convinced a man might sit down as
systematically, and as successfully, to the study of wit,
as he might to the study of mathematics : and I would
answer for it, that, by giving up only six hours a day to
being witty, he should come on prodigiously before mid-

126 LECTURE X.

summer, so that his friends should hardly know him
again. For what is there to hinder the mind from grad-
ually acquiring a habit of attending to the lighter rela-
tions of ideas in which wit consists ? Punning grows
upon every body, and punning is the wit of words. I do
not mean to say that it is so easy to acquire a habit of
discovering new relations in ideas as in words, but the
difficulty is not so much greater as to render it insuper-
able to habit. One man is unquestionably much better
calculated for it by nature than another : but association,
which gradually makes a bad speaker a good one, might
give a man wit who had it not, if any man chose to be
so absurd as to sit down to acquire it.

I have mentioned puns. They are, I believe, what I
have denominated them — the wit of words. They are
exactly the same to words which wit is to ideas, and
consist in the sudden discovery of relations in language.
A pun, to be perfect in its kind, should contain two dis-
tinct meanings ; the one common and obvious ; the
other, more remote : and in the notice which the mind
takes of the relation between these two sets of words,
and in the surprise which that relation excites, the pleas-
ure of a pun consists. Miss Hamilton, in her book on
Education, mentions the instance of a boy so very neg-
lectful, that he could never be brought to read the word
patriarchs ; but whenever he met with it he always
pronounced it par-tridges. A friend of the writer ob-
served to her, that it could hardly be considered as a
mere piece of negligence, for it appeared to him that the
boy, in calling them partridges, was making game of the
patriarchs. Now here are two distinct meanings con-
tained in the same phrase : for to make game of the
patriarchs is to laugh at them ; or to make game of
them is, by a very extravagant and laughable sort of
ignorance of words, to rank them among pheasants,
partridges, and other such delicacies, which the law
takes under its protection and calls game : and the
whole pleasure derived from this pun consists in the
sudden discovery that two such different meanings are
referable to one form of expression. I have very little to
say about puns ; they are in very bad repute, and so

ON WIT AND HUMOR. 127

they ought to be. The wit of language is so miserably
inferior to the wit of ideas, that it is very deservedly
driven out of good company. Sometimes, indeed, a pun
makes its appearance which seems for a moment to
redeem its species ; but we must not be deceived by
them : it is a radically bad race of wit. By unremitting
persecution, it has been at last got under, and driven
into cloisters, — from whence it must never again be
suffered to emerge into the light of the world. One in-
valuable blessing produced by the banishment of pun-
ning is, an immediate reduction of the number of wits.
It is a wit of so low an order, and in which some sort
of progress is so easily made, that the number of those
endowed with the gift of wit would be nearly equal to
those endowed with the gift of speech. The condition
of putting together ideas in order to be witty operates
much in the same salutary manner as the condition of
finding rhymes in poetry ; — it reduces the number of
performers to those who have vigor enough to over-
come incipient difficulties, and makes a sort of provision
that that which need not be done at all, should be done
well whenever it is done. For we may observe, that
mankind are always more fastidious about that which is
pleasing, than they are about that which is useful. A
commonplace piece of morality is much more easily
pardoned than a commonplace piece of poetry or of wit ;
because it is absolutely necessary for the well-being of
society that the rules of morality should be frequently re-
peated and enforced ; and though in any individual
instance the thing may be badly done, the sacred neces-
sity of the practice itself, atones in some degree for the
individual failure : but as there is no absolute necessity
that men should be either wits or poets, we are less in-
clined to tolerate their mediocrity in superfluities. If
a man have ordinary chairs and tables, no one notices
it ; but if he stick vulgar, gaudy pictures on his walls,
which he need not have at all, every one laughs at him
for his folly.

The wit of irony consists in the surprise excited by
the discovery of that relation wich exists between the
apparent praise and the real blame; or, if it be good-

128 LECTURE X.

natured irony, between the apparent blame and the real
praise. I shall quote a noble specimen of irony from the
preface of " Killing no Murder :" —

"TO HIS HIGHNESS OLIVER CROMWELL,

" May it please your Highness,

" How I have spent some hours of the leisure your
Highness has been pleased to give me, this following
paper will give your Highness an account. How you
will please to interpret it, 1 can not tell ; but I can with
confidence say, my intention in it is, to procure your
Highness that justice nobody yet does you, and to let the
people see, the longer they defer it, the greater injury
they do both themselves and you. To your Highness
justly belongs the honor of dying for the people : and it
can not choose but be an unspeakable consolation to you
in the last moments of your life, to consider, with how
much benefit to the world you are like to leave it. It is
then only, my Lord, the titles you now usurp will be
truly yours. You will then be indeed the deliverer of
your country, and free it from a bondage little inferior to
that from which Moses delivered his. You will then be
that true reformer which you would now be thought ; re-
ligion shall be then restored, liberty asserted, and parlia-
ments have those privileges they have sought for. We
shall then hope that other laws will have place beside
those of the sword, and that justice shall be otherwise de-
fined than the will and pleasure of the strongest ; and we
shall then hope men will keep oaths again, and not have
the necessity of being false and perfidious to preserve
themselves, and be like their ruler. All this we hope
from your Highness's happy expiration, who are the true
father of your country ; for while you live, we can call
nothing ours, and it is from your death that we hope for
our inheritances. Let this consideration arm and fortify
your Highness's mind against the fears of death, and the
terrors of your evil conscience, — that the good you will
do by your death, will somewhat balance the evils of
your life. And if, in the black catalogue of high male-
factors, few can be found that have lived more to the

ON WIT AND HUMOR. 129

affliction and disturbance of mankind, than your High-
ness has done ; yet your greatest enemies will not deny,
that there are likewise as few that have expired more to
the universal benefit of mankind, than your Highness is
like to do. To hasten this great good, is the chief end
of my writing this paper ; and if it have the effects I hope
it will, your Highness will quickly be out of the reach of
men's malice, and your enemies will only be able to
wound you in your memory, which strokes you will not
feel. That your Highness may be speedily in this secu-
rity, is the universal wish of your grateful country ; this
is the desire and prayers of the good and of the bad, and,
it may be, is the only thing wherein all sects and factions
do agree in their devotion, and it is our only common
prayer! But among all that put in their request and
supplication for your Highness's speedy deliverance from
all earthly troubles, none is more assiduous nor more fer-
vent than he, that, with the rest of the nation, hath the
honor to be (may it please your Highness),

" Your Highness's present slave and vassal."

Now, through the whole of this passage, there is an ap-
parent praise of the person to whom it is addressed, and
a real censure of that person. The surprise excited by
this union of visible eulogium and real satire constitutes
the pleasure we receive from the passage.

A sarcasm (which is another species of wit) generally
consists in the obliquity of the invective. It must not
be direct assertion, but something established by infer-
ence and analogy ; — something which the mind does not
at first perceive, but in the discovery of which it experi-
ences the pleasure of surprise. A true sarcasm is like a
sword-stick, — it appears, at first sight, to be much more
innocent than it really is, till, all of a sudden, there leaps
something out of it — sharp, and deadly, and incisive —
which makes you tremble and recoil.

I have insisted, in the beginning of my lecture, on the
great power of the ridiculous over the opinions of man-
kind ; including in that term wit, humor, and every other
feeling which has laughter for its distinguishing charac-
teristic.

130 LECTURE X.

I know of no principle which it is of more importance
to fix in the minds of young people than that of the most
determined resistance to the encroachments of ridicule.
Give up to the world, and to the ridicule with which the
world enforces its dominion, every trifling question of
manner and appearance : it is to toss courage and firm-
ness to the winds, to combat with the mass upon such
subjects as these. But learn from the earliest days to
inure your principles against the perils of ridicule : you
can no more exercise your reason, if you live in the con-
stant dread of laughter, than you can enjoy your life, if
you are in the constant terror of death. If you think it
right to differ from the times, and to make a stand for
any valuable point of morals, do it, however rustic, how-
ever antiquated, however pedantic it may appear ; — do
it, not for insolence, but seriously and grandly, — as a
man who wore a soul of his own in his bosom, and did
not wait till it was breathed into him by the breath of
fashion. Let men call you mean, if you know you are
just ; hypocritical, if you are honestly religious ; pusillan-
imous, if you feel that you are firm : resistance soon con-
verts unprincipled wit into sincere respect ; and no after
time can tear from those feelings which every man car-
ries within him who has made a noble and successful ex-
ertion in a virtuous cause.

LECTURE XL

ON WIT AND HUMOR.— PART II.

Hobbes defines laughter to be " a sudden glory, arising
from a sudden conception of some eminency in ourselves,
by comparison with infirmity of others, or our own
former infirmity." By infirmity he must mean, I pre-
sume, marked and decided inferiority, whether acciden-
tal and momentary, or natural and permanent. He
can not, of course, mean by it, what we usually denomi-
nate infirmity of body or mind ; for it must be obvious,
at the first moment, that humor has a much wider range
than this. If we were to see a little man walking in the
streets with a hat half as big as an umbrella, we should
laugh ; and that laughter certainly could not be ascribed
to the infirmities either of his body or mind : for his
diminutive figure, without his disproportionate hat, I
shall suppose by hypothesis, to be such as would excite
no laughter at all ; — and, indeed, an extraordinary large
man, with a hat such as is worn by boys of twelve years
old, would be an object quite as ludicrous.

Taking, therefore, the language of Hobbes to mean
the sudden discovery of any inferiority, it will be very
easy to show that such is not the explanation of that
laughter excited by humor : for I may discover suddenly
that a person has lost half-a-crown, — or, that his tooth
aches, — or, that his house is not so well built, or his coat
not so well made, as mine ; and yet none of these
discoveries give me the slightest sensation of the humor-
ous. If it be suggested that these proofs of inferiority
are very slight, the theory of Hobbes is still more
weakened, by recurring to greater instances of inferiori-
ty : for the sudden information that any one of my

132 LECTURE XI.

acquaintance has broken his leg, or is completely ruined
in his fortunes, has decidedly very little of humor in
it ; — at least it is not very customary to be thrown into
paroxysms of laughter by such sort of intelligence. It
is clear, then, that there are many instances of the
sudden discovery of inferiorities and infirmities in others,
which excite no laughter; and, therefore, pride is not the
explanation of laughter excited by the humorous. It is
true, the object of laughter is always inferior to us ; but
then the converse is not true, — that every one who is
inferior to us is an object of laughter : therefore, as some
inferiority is ridiculous, and other inferiority not ridicu-
lous, we must, in order to explain the nature of the
humorous, endeavor to discover the discriminating cause.
This discriminating cause is incongruity, or the con-
junction of objects and circumstances not usually com-
bined, — and the conjunction of which is either useless,
or w 7 hat in the common estimation of men would be
considered as rather troublesome, and not to be desired.
To see a young officer of eighteen years of age come
into company in full uniform, and with such a wig as is
worn by grave and respectable clergymen advanced in
years, would make every body laugh, because it certainly
is a very unusual combination of objects, and such as
would not atone for its novelty by any particular purpose
of utility to which it was subservient. It is a complete
instance of incongruity. Add ten years to the age of
this incongruous officer, the incongruity would be very
faintly diminished; — make him eighty years of age, and
a celebrated military character of the last reign, and the
incongruity almost entirely vanishes : I am not sure that
we should not be rather more disposed to respect the
peculiarity than to laugh at it. As you increase the
incongruity, you increase the humor ; as you diminish it,
you diminish the humor. If a tradesman of a corpulent
and respectable appearance, with habiliments somewhat
ostentatious, were to slide down gently into the mud, and
dedecorate a pea-green coat, I am afraid we should all
have the barbarity to laugh. If his hat and wig, like
treacherous servants, were to desert their falling master,
it certainly would not diminish our propensity to laugh ;

ON WIT AND HUMOR. 133

but if he were to fall into a violent passion, and abuse
every body about him, nobody could possibly resist the
incongruity of a pea-green tradesman, very respectable,
sitting in the mud, and threatening all the passers-by
with the effects of his wrath. Here, every incident
heightens the humor of the scene: — the gayety of his
tunic, the general respectability of his appearance, the
rills of muddy water which trickle down his cheeks, and
the harmless violence of his rage ! But if, instead of
this, we were to observe a dustman falling into the mud,
it would hardly attract any attention, because the opposi-
tion of ideas is so trifling, and the incongruity so slight.
Surprise is as essential to humor as it is to wit. In
going into a foreign country for the first time, we are
exceedingly struck with the absurd appearance of some
of the ordinary characters we meet with : a very short
time, however, completely reconciles us to the phenomena
of French abbes and French postilions, and all the
variety of figures so remote from those we are accus-
tomed to, and which surprise us so much at our first ac-
quaintance with that country. I do not mean to say,
either of one class of the ridiculous or of the other, that
perfect novelty is absolutely a necessary ingredient to
the production of any degree of pleasure, but that the
pleasure arising from humor diminishes, as the surprise
diminishes ; — it. is less at the second exhibition of any
piece of humor than at the first, less at the third than the
second, till at last it becomes trite and disgusting. A
piece of humor will, however, always bear repetition
much better than a piece of wit ; because, as humor
depends in some degree on manner, there will probably
always be in that manner, something sufficiently different
from what it was before, to prevent the disagreeable
effects of complete sameness. If I say a good thing to-
day, and repeat it again to-morrow in another company,
the flash of to-day is as much like the flash of to-morrow
as the flash of one musket is like the flash of another ;
but if I tell a humorous story, there are a thousand little
diversities in my voice, manner, language, and gestures,
which make it rather a different thing from what it was

134 LECTURE XI.

before, and infuse a tinge of novelty into the repeated
narrative.

It is by no means, however, sufficient, to say of humor,
that it is incongruity which excites surprise ; — the same
limits are necessary here which I have before affixed to
wit, — it must excite surprise, and nothing but surprise ;
for the moment it calls into action any other high and
impetuous emotion, all sense of the humorous is imme-
diately at an end. For, to return again to our friend
dressed in green, whom we left in the mud, — suppose,
instead of a common, innocent tumble, he had experienced
a very severe fall, and we discovered that he had broken
a limb ; our laughter is immediately extinguished, and
converted into a lively feeling of compassion. The
incongruity is precisely as great as it was before ; but
as it has excited another feeling not compatible with the
ridiculous, all mixture of the humorous is at end.

The sense of the humorous is as incompatible with
tenderness and respect as w T ith compassion. No man
would laugh to see a little child fall ; and he would be
shocked to see such an accident happen to an old man,
or a woman, or to his father ! It is an odd case to put,
but I should like to know if any man living could have
laughed if he had seen Sir Isaac Newton rolling in the
mud ? I believe that not only Senior Wranglers and
Senior Optimi would have run to his assistance, but
that dustmen, and carmen, and coal-heavers would have
run and picked him up, and set him to rights. It is a
beautiful thing to observe the boundaries which nature
has affixed to the ridiculous, and to notice how soon it is
swallowed up by the more illustrious feelings of our
minds. Where is the heart so hard that could bear to
see the awkward resources and contrivances of the poor
turned into ridicule ? Who could laugh at the fractured,
ruined body of a soldier ? Who is so wicked as to
amuse himself with the infirmities of extreme old age ?
or to find subject for humor in the weakness of a
perishing, dissolving body ? Who is there that does not
feel himself disposed to overlook the little peculiarities
of the truly great and wise, and to throw a veil over that
ridicule which they have redeemed by the magnitude

ON WIT AND HUMOR. 135

of their talents, and the splendor of their virtues ? Who
ever thinks of turning into ridicule our great and ardent
hope of a world to come? Whenever the man of humor
meddles with these things, he is astonished to find, that
in all the great feelings of their nature the mass of
mankind always think and act aright; — that they are
ready enough to laugh, — but that they are quite as ready
to drive away with indignation and contempt, the light
fool who comes with the feather of wit to crumble the
bulwarks of truth, and to beat down the Temples of God !

So, then, this turns out to be the nature of humor :
that it is incongruity which creates surprise, and only
surprise. Try the most notorious and classical instances
of humor by this rule, and you will find it succeed. If
you find incongruities which create surprise and are not
humorous, it is always, I believe, because they are ac-
companied with some other feeling, — emotion, or an
interesting train of thought, beside surprise. Find an
incongruity which creates surprise, and surprise only,
and, if it be not humorous, I am, what I very often am,
completely wrong ; and this theory is, what theories
very often are, unfounded in fact.

Most men, I observe, are of opinion that humor is
entirely confined to character ; — and if you choose to
confine the word humor to those instances of the ridicu-
lous which are excited by character, you may do so if
you please, — this is not worth contending. All that I
wish to show is, that this species of feeling is produced
by something beside character ; and if you allow it to
be the same feeling, I am satisfied, and you may call it
by what name you please. One of the most laughable
scenes I ever saw in my life was, the complete overturn-
ing of a very large table, with all the dinner upon it, —
which I believe one or two gentlemen in this room re-
member as well as myself. What of character is there
in seeing a roasted turkey sprawling on the floor ? or
ducks lying in different parts of the room, covered with
trembling fragments of jelly ? It is impossible to avoid
laughing at such absurdities, because the incongruities
they involve are so very great ; though they have no
more to do with character than they have with chemistry.

136 LECTURE XI.

A thousand little circumstances happen every day which
excite violent laughter, but have no sort of reference to
character. The laughter is excited by throwing inani-
mate objects into strange and incongruous positions.
Now, I am quite unable, by attending to what passes in
my own mind, to say, that these classes of sensations
are not alike : they may differ in degree, for the incon-
gruous observed of things living, is always more striking
than the incongruous observed in things inanimate ; but
there is an incongruous not observable in character,
which produces the feeling of humor.

Having thus endeavored to ascertain the nature of
humor, I come next to the various classes and divisions
of the ridiculous which have no affinity with humor.

Buffoonery is voluntary incongruity. To play the
buffoon, is to counterfeit some peculiarity incongruous
enough to excite laughter : not incongruities of mind,
for this is a humor of a higher class, and constitutes
comic acting ; but incongruities of body, — imitating a
drunken man, or a clown, or a person with a hunched
back, or puffing out the cheeks as the lower sort of
comic actors do upon the stage. Buffoonery is general
in its imitations ; mimicry is particular, and seizes on
the incongruous in individual characters. I think we
must say, that mimicry is always employed upon de-
fects : a good voice, a gentleman-like appearance, and
rational, agreeable manners, can never be the subject of
mimicry ; — they may be exactly represented and imi-
tated, but nobody would call this mimicry, as the word
always means the representation of defects. Parody is
the adaptation of the same thoughts to other subjects.
Burlesque is that species of parody, or adaptation of
thoughts to other subjects, which is intended to make
the original ridiculous. Pope has parodied several Odes
of Horace ; Johnson has parodied Juvenal ; Cervantes
has burlesqued the old romances.

A bull, — which must by no means be passed over in
this recapitulation of the family of wit and humor, — a
bull is exactly the counterpart of a witticism : for as wit
discovers real relations that are not apparent, bulls admit
apparent relations that are not real. The pleasure

ON WIT AND HUMOR. 137

arising from bulls, proceeds from our surprise at sud-
denly discovering two things to be dissimilar in which a
resemblance might have been suspected. The same
doctrine will apply to wit and bulls in action. Practical
wit discovers connection or relation between actions, in
which duller understandings discover none ; and practi-
cal bulls originate from an apparent relation between
two actions which more correct understandings immedi-
ately perceive to have none at all. In the late rebellion
in Ireland, the rebels, who had conceived a high degree
of indignation against some great banker, passed a reso-
lution that they would burn his notes ; — which they
accordingly did, with great assiduity ; forgetting, that in
burning his notes they were destroying his debts, and
that for every note which went into the flames, a cor-
respondent value went into the banker's pocket. A
gentleman, in speaking of a nobleman's wife, of great
rank and fortune, lamented very much that she had no
children. A medical gentleman who was present ob-
served, that to have no children was a great misfortune,
but he thought he had remarked it was hereditary in
some families. Take any instance of this branch of the
ridiculous, and you will always find an apparent relation
of ideas leading to a complete inconsistency.

I hardly know whether quaintness belongs to this
subject, and the word is now used so loosely that it is
no very easy matter to determine at what it points. I
think it means an attention to petty excellences in style,
an over-scrupulous and affected delicacy of expression ;
and that quaint humor, is humor in this peculiar garb.

Good caricature is the humorous addressed to the eye.
It represents you as doing something which it would be
extremely incongruous and absurd in you to do ; but it
adds the effects of mimicry to those of humor, laying
hold of personal defects and peculiarities, and aggravat-
ing them in a very high degree.

I shall say nothing of charades, and such sorts of un-
pardonable trumpery : if charades are made at all, they
should be made without benefit of clergy, the offender
should instantly be hurried off to execution, and be cut
off in the middle of his dullness, without being allowed

138 LECTUKE XI.

to explain to the executioner why his first is like his
second, or what is the resemblance between his fourth
and his ninth.

Incongruities, which excite laughter, generally pro-
duce a feeling of contempt for the person at whom we
laugh. I do not know that I can state an instance of
the humorous in persons, where the person laughing
does not feel himself superior to the person laughed at, —
whether that sense of the humorous be excited by an
accidental incongruity of situation, or by a permanent
incongruity interwoven in the character. Remember,
I am not speaking of persons laughed with, but of per-
sons laughed at: and in all such cases the laugher is, in
his own estimation, the superior man ; the person
laughed at, the inferior : at the same time, contempt
accompanied by laughter, is always mitigated by laughter,
which seems to diminish hatred, as perspiration dimin-
ishes heat.

Laughing contempt is by no means the strongest con-
tempt ; whenever contempt increases to a very high
degree, it becomes serious, and all laughter ceases.
Contempt verges upon anger, and the humorous is at an
end. A very foolish, insignificant man, may give him-
self airs of great importance in society, and provoke
laughter; but the laughter by no means goes on in-
creasing with the incongruity, for at last a degree of
contempt ensues, which is rather painful than agreeable ;
and so painful, as to put an end to laughter, and chase
away the humorous.

The ridiculous is not so much opposed to the proper
and the decent, as to that which is very proper and very
decent. There is a propriety so unusual, that it obtains
positive praise whenever it is observed ; there is a fainter
sense of propriety, just sufficient to guard a man from
observation, but for which he obtains neither blame nor
praise. There is a deficiency of propriety so great, that
it is universally ridiculous. Take it in language :— my
mode of expressing myself may be so happy and so ac-
curate, I may throw my ideas into such agreeable com-
binations of words, that I may derive a considerable
share of reputation from my style, either in talking or in

ON WIT AND HUMOR. 139

writing ; or my language may be just so mediocre, as to
escape all attention ; or so bad, and so full of incongrui-
ties, that it may be laughed at. Now the last of these,
which is so bad as to excite the powerful emotion of
laughter, is to be opposed and contrasted, in all specula-
tions upon this subject, to that which is so excellent as
to excite a strong feeling of approbation. I mention
this, in order to show that nature acts as much by re-
wards as by punishments ; and that men are as much
allured to do that which is fit and decent, by the love of
each other's approbation, as they are by the fear of each
other's laughter and disapprobation. Laughter is, to
many men, worse than death. Innumerable duels have
been fought to prevent the pangs of ridicule, and to re-
venge them ; and there are very few who would not
rather be hated than be laughed at. The effects of this
feeling, entertained in a rational and moderate degree,
are, to render men dependent upon each other's judg-
ment, and to lay the basis of that propriety and decorum
upon which the pleasure and happiness of our intercourse
are founded.

In Bedlam (where there is no fear of the ridiculous),
within ten yards one man is singing, another reciting,
and another sleeping ; a young man is dressed like an
old one, and an old one as if he were young ; there is
that universal selfishness, which of course must predom-
inate where every human being is utterly indifferent to
the censure or praise of the other. In polished society,
the dread of being ridiculous, models every word and
gesture into propriety, and produces an exquisite atten-
tion to the feelings and opinions of others ; it is the
great cure of extravagance, folly, and impertinence ; it
curbs the sallies of eccentricity, it recalls the attention
of mankind to the one uniform standard of reason and
common sense.

It has often been remarked, that wit never excites
laughter, and that humor does. This is putting the mat-
ter in rather too strong a light. The laughter is not so
long and so loud in wit as it is in humor, but there is cer-
tainly a faint approach to the same bodily affection.
Nature seems to have intended that we should have been

140 LECTURE XI.

affected by both, in a similar manner, but not in the same
degree. I do not pretend to give any reason for this
fact ; except, perhaps, it be this, that humor is in general
longer than wit : in a piece of wit there is but a single
flash of surprise and pleasure ; in a piece of humor, as in
Don Quixote's battle with the mills, one impression fol-
lows quick upon another, the mind is thrown into an atti-
tude of pleasing surprise by the first occurrence of the
idea, and then all the other touches of humor act one on
another with a compound force and accumulated impres-
sion, till at last the convulsion of laughter ensues ; — and
it is a confirmation of this idea, that the tranquil smile
with which wit is received, is soon disturbed and roused
into something more disorderly, when there is much re-
duplication of wit ; when it comes out, as it does in some
men, flash after flash, with a brisk multiplication of sur-
prises, a continued irritability, — where one nerve no
sooner ceases to vibrate than another is struck, and the
mind is kept in a constant agitation of pleasure. In
cases like this, I have very often seen wit produce loud
and convulsive laughter ; and am inclined to believe, that
the different effects of humor and wit, in this respect, are
a good deal to be attributed to the continuity of one, and
the brevity of the other; to which, perhaps, may be
added, that wit excites more admiration than humor, — a
feeling by no means favorable to laughter.

Wit and humor, though the first consists in discover-
ing connection, the latter in discovering incongruity, are
closely and nearly related to each other. The respect-
ive feelings both depend upon surprise, are both incom-
patible with serious and important ideas, and both com-
municate the same sort of pleasure to the understanding.
A man who gives the reins to his wit, may repress his
humor as undignified ; the one may be rooted out by
design and attention ; but they seem, where no pains of
this kind have been taken, to spring up naturally in the
same soil, and to be plants of the same tribe and family.
The ingenious and philosophical Dr. Millar, of Glasgow,
has a very interesting speculation of the different effects
of civilization on wit and humor, the progress of which
he conceives to have a direct tendency to encourage wit,

ON WIT AND HUMOR. 141

and to diminish humor. It is so very well done, and so
clever, that I shall, I am sure, be excused for reading
it: —

" The higher advances of civilization and refinement,
contributed not only to explode the ludicrous pastimes
which had been the delight of a former age, but even to
weaken the propensity to every species of humorous ex-
hibition. Although humor be commonly productive of
more merriment than wit, it seldom procures to the pos-
sessor the same degree of respect. To show in a strong
light the follies, the defects, and the improprieties of man-
kind, they must be exhibited with peculiar coloring. To
excite strong ridicule, the picture must be changed, and
the features, though like, must be exaggerated. The
man who, in conversation, aims at the display of his tal-
ents, must endeavor to represent with peculiar heighten-
ing the tone, the aspect, the gesture, the deportment of
the person whom he ridicules. To paint folly, he must,
for the time, appear foolish. To exhibit oddity and ab-
surdity, he must himself become odd and absurd. There
is, in this attempt, something low and buffoonish ; and a
degree of that meanness which appeared in the person
thus exposed, is likely, by a natural association, to re-
main with his representative. The latter is beheld in
the light of a player, who degrades himself for our enter-
tainment, and whom nothing but the highest excellence
in his profession can save from our contempt.

" But though the circumstances and manners of a pol-
ished nation are adverse to the cultivation of humor,
they are peculiarly calculated to promote the circulation
and improvement of wit. The entertainment arising
from the latter, has no connection with those humiliating
circumstances which are inseparable from the former ;
but is derived from such occasional exertions of the
fancy, as may be consistent with the utmost elegance
and correctness. The man of wit has no occasion to
personate folly, or to become the temporary butt of that
ridicule which he means to excite. He assumes no gro-
tesque attitude, he employs no buffoonish expression, nor
appears in any character but his own. Unlike the man
of humor, he is never prolix or tedious, but, passing with

142 LECTURE XI.

rapidity from one object to another, selects from the
group whatever suits his purpose. He sees with quick-
ness those happy assemblages, those unexpected opposi-
tions and resemblances, with which the imagination is
delighted and surprised, and by a sudden glance he di-
rects the attention to that electrical point of contact by
which the enlivening stroke is communicated."*

I admire this very much, for, whether true or not, it is
very interesting and ingenious ; but I confess I am not
quite convinced by it, nor can I easily concede that the
effect of civilization is to diminish and check the humor-
ous. There are many circumstances in a civilized coun-
try, which, on the contrary, go directly to the encourage-
ment of humor. Dr. Millar himself, mentions one of
very considerable importance. To this cause may be
added, that there are a greater number of minds in a civ-
ilized state, capable of seizing the finer inconsistencies in
character, and relishing that humor which they excite ;
there are a thousand little traits of the humorous, which
a man of fine and cultivated understanding perceives,
which are utterly lost upon grosser faculties ; but an age
of civilization is an age in which the number of fine and
cultivated understandings is the greatest, and in which,
therefore, for these reasons, the field of humor is en-
larged.

It is unfair to take the stage as a proof, and to ask
why we have not Molieres and Shakspeares starting up
at every period ! The preceding age has gleaned all the
twenty or thirty characters of strong and extravagant
humor which lie upon the surface of society ; not be-
cause it had greater talents for humor, but merely be-
cause it was the preceding age. The blustering captain,
— the inebriated and witty rake, — the obese alderman, —
the squire in London, — slaving poets, homicide phy-
sicians, chambermaids, valets, and duennas, — are all
gone ; employed by dramatic writers who had the first
of the market. These characters can not be reintro-
duced on the stage ; they are worn out there ; but they
exist in real life, and of course must exist, while men are
what they ever have been.

* Millar's Historical View of the English Government, iv. 357.

ON WIT AND HUMOR. 143

Another reason which would induce me to suspect
that Professor Millar is wrong in supposing that, humor
decays in a civilized age, is, that in a civilized age the
number of idle people is so immensely augmented, and,
of course.- the demand for every thing amusing consider-
ably increased. There are several meanings included
under the term civilization ; it means, having better cups
and saucers than we had a century or two centuries ago;
better laws, better manners ; and it means, also, having
nothing to do, — and those who have nothing to do, must
either be amused, or expire with gaping. For this rea-
son an amusing and entertaining man, who has humor,
appears to me to be in high request in a civilized coun-
try. I allow that his humor, to be well received, must
be of a very different complexion from what would pass
current in more barbarous times ; it must be the humor
of the mind, not the humor of the body. It must be de-
void of every shade of buffoonery and grimace, and
managed with a great degree of delicacy and skill. Civ-
ilization improves the humor, but I can hardly allow that
it diminishes it : in spite of all Professor Millar has said,
I am strongly inclined to think there will be more hu-
mor, more agreeable railleiy, and more facetious remark,
displayed between seven and ten o'clock this evening, in
the innumerable dinners which are to be eaten by civil-
ized people in this vast city, than ten months could have
produced in the reigns of Queen Elizabeth or Henry the
Seventh.

On the very face of the proposition there is indeed
something which it is difficult to digest. The effect of
civilization is, to avert mankind from the contemplation
of a great part of their own nature : they observe incon-
gruities better in a state of barbarism, or half barbarism;
and in proportion as they are elegant, acute, and learned,
they become dull and careless observers of some of the
most stiking phenomena of the human mind.

I. wish, after all I have said about wit and humor, I
could satisfy myself of their good effects upon the char-
acter and disposition ; but I am convinced the probable
tendency of both is, to corrupt the understanding and
the heart. I am not speaking of wit where it is kept

144 LECTURE XI.

down by more serious qualities of mind, and thrown
into the background of the picture ; but where it stands
out boldly and emphatically, and is evidently the master
quality in any particular mind. Professed wits, though
they are generally courted for the amusement they afford,
are seldom respected for the qualities they possess. The
habit of seeing things in a witty point of view, increases,
and makes incursions from its own proper regions, upon
principles and opinions which are ever held sacred by
the wise and good. A witty man is a dramatic per-
former ; in process of time, he can no more exist without
applause, than he can exist without air ; if his audience
be small, or if they are inattentive, or if a new wit
defrauds him of any portion of his admiration, it is all
over with him, — he sickens, and is extinguished. The
applauses of the theater on which he performs are so
essential to him that he must obtain them at the ex-
pense of decency, friendship, and good feeling. It must
always be probable, too, that a mere wit is a person of
light and frivolous understanding. His business is not
to discover relations of ideas that are useful, and have a
real influence upon life, but to discover the more trifling
relations which are only amusing ; he never looks at
things with the naked eye of common sense, but is
always gazing at the world through a Claude Lorraine
glass, — discovering a thousand appearances which are
created only by the instrument of inspection, and cover-
ing every object with factitious and unnatural colors.
In short, the character of a mere wit it is impossible to
consider as very amiable, very respectable, or very safe.
So far the world, in judging of wit where it has swal-
lowed up all other qualities, judge aright; but I doubt
if they are sufficiently indulgent to this faculty where it
exists in a lesser degree, and as one out of many other in-
gredients of the understanding. There is an association
in men's minds between dullness and wisdom, amuse-
ment and folly, which has a very powerful influence in
decision upon character, and is not overcome without
-considerable difficulty. The reason is, that the outward
signs of a dull man and a wise man are the same, and so
are the outward signs of a frivolous man and a witty

ON WIT AND HUMOR. 145

man ; and we are not to expect that the majority will
be disposed to look to much more than the outward sign.
I believe the fact to be, that wit is very seldom the only
eminent quality which resides in the mind of any man ;
it is commonly accompanied by many other talents of
every description, and ought to be considered as a strong
evidence of a fertile and superior understanding. Al-
most all the great poets, orators, and statesmen of all
times, have been witty. Caesar, Alexander, Aristotle,
Descartes, and Lord Bacon, were witty men ; so were
Cicero, Shakspeare, Demosthenes, Boileau, Pope, Dryden,
Fontenelle, Jonson, Waller, Cowley, Solon, Socrates,
Dr. Johnson, and almost every man who has made a dis-
tinguished figure in the House of Commons. I have
talked of the danger of wit : I do not mean by that to
enter into commonplace declamation against faculties
because they are dangerous ; — wit is dangerous, elo-
quence is dangerous, a talent for observation is danger-
ous, every thing is dangerous that has efficacy and vigor
for its characteristics ; nothing is safe but mediocrity.
The business is, in conducting the understanding well,
to risk something ; to aim at uniting things that are com-
monly incompatible. The meaning of an extraordinary
man is, that he is eight men, not one man ; that he has as
much wit as if he had no sense, and as much sense as if
he had no wit ; that his conduct is as judicious as if he
were the dullest of human beings, and his imagination as
brilliant as if he were irretrievably ruined. But when
wit is combined with sense and information ; when it is
softened by benevolence, and restrained by strong prin-
ciple ; when it is in the hands of a man who can use it
and despise it, who can be witty and something much
better than witty, who loves honor, justice, decency,
good nature, morality, and religion, ten thousand times
better than wit ; — wit is then a beautiful and delightful
part of our nature. There is no more interesting spec-
tacle than to see the effects of wit upon the different
characters of men ; than to observe it expanding caution,
relaxing dignity, unfreezing coldness, — teaching age, and
care, and pain, to smile, — extorting reluctant gleams of
pleasure from melancholy, and charming even the pangs

Q

146 LECTURE XI.

of grief. It is pleasant to observe how it penetrates
through the coldness and awkwardness of society, grad-
ually bringing men nearer together, and, like the com-
bined force of wine and oil, giving every man a glad heart
and a shining countenance. Genuine and innocent wit
like this, is surely the flavor of the mind ! Man could
direct his ways by plain reason, and support his life by
tasteless food ; but God has given us wit, and flavor, and
brightness, and laughter, and perfumes, to enliven the
days of man's pilgrimage, and to " charm his pained steps
over the burning marie."

LECTURE XII.

ON TASTE.

All language which concerns the mind is borrowed
from language which respects material objects.

The mind itself is called breath, wind, air, in almost
all the languages of the world. Apprehension, comprehen-
sion, understanding, perception, are all metaphors taken
from the human body, or from substance of some sort or
another. The reason is plain : the attention of man is
first called powerfully to outer objects ; they are the first
observed and the first named, they make the basis of all
languages ; and then, when men can turn their attention
inwardly upon themselves, and want words for new
ideas, they naturally borrow them from already existing
language, and are determined in their choice by some
fanciful analogy between the object of mind, and the ob-
ject of body. This is exactly the case with taste. There
are certain feelings of the mind which take place upon
the perception of certain objects, or the contemplation
of certain actions, which men have chosen to compare
to the sensations of the palate upon the application of
certain flavors. There is no reason, that I know of,
why they should compare them to sensations excited by
taste, rather than by smell or by touch. The feeling of
beauty, excited by the view of a pleasant landscape, no
more "resembles any flavor which the palate can taste,
than it resembles a soft and smooth object which the
hand can touch : one metaphor has established itself, the
other has not. We have begun, though of late years, to
use the word tact ; we say of such a man that he has a
good tact in manners, that he has a fine tact, exactly as
we would say he has a good taste. We might, in

148 LECTURE XII.

familiar style, extend the metaphor to the sense of smell-
ing, and say of a man that he had a good nose for the
ridiculous.

Taste, then, is a metaphorical expression ; and it is a
mere word of classification, including several distinct
feelings of the mind, exactly as the primary taste includes
several distinct feelings of the body. It includes the
feeling of beauty in all its very numerous meanings, the
feeling of novelty, the feeling of grandeur, the feeling of
sublimity, the feeling of propriety, and perhaps many
others, which, in a subsequent part of my lecture, I shall
take pains to enumerate.

Precisely in the same manner, the natural taste in-
cludes the taste of sweet, sour, hot, cold, moist, savory,
and many others, which are so pleasantly exemplified
every day in this great town; so that, when we use the
word taste, we must recollect that there is no single
feeling of the mind which has obtained that name, but
that it is a classifying, comprehensive word, embracing
a great number of distinct feelings. But why have we
called all these feelings by the name of taste ? and why
have we denied the appellation of taste to other feelings
of the mind ? This is a very important question in the
discussion, and I will endeavor to answer it hereafter ;
at present I pass it by for the sake of order and arrange-
ment. It is very clear why we call all the various feel-
ings of the palate by the name of taste, — simply because
they originate from the same bodily organ, the palate :
and this analogy has given rise to a very strange sort of
language, — of the organ of taste; — as if there were any
separate quarter of the mind set apart for the generation
of these feelings. All that we know about the matter, is
this : men have chosen to take a metaphor from the
body, and apply it to the mind ; they have chosen, for
reasons hereafter to be conjectured, and from some re-
mote resemblance, to class some feelings under the ap-
pellation of taste, others not. This is the plain history of
the fact ; further than this, is all metaphorical fallacy ;
and as for any separate organ of taste, there is either no
meaning to the expression, or, if there be, it is impossible
io ascertain the fact which the expression implies.

ON TASTE. 149

I shall now endeavor to state the various feelings
which have been classed under this appellation, and the
extent to which practice has extended and applied the
metaphor of taste. It matters not which of the feelings
I state first, and I do not think I shall give much offence
by beginning with that of beauty.

I do not mean to analyze the feeling of the beautiful
(that I reserve for a separate lecture), but merely to
state it as one of those feelings of the mind to which the
metaphor of taste is applied. To talk first of the
simplest and most uncompounded kinds of beauty. We
say that gay colors are beautiful ; that all children, or
those muscular and robust children called savages, have
a taste for beautiful colors, for smooth surfaces, for har-
monious sounds, and for regular figures. We say of
such a man, meaning to pay him a high compliment,
that he has a good taste in the beauty of the person ; of
another, that he has a fine taste in architecture, meaning
by the expression, that he feels the beauties of architec-
ture : in short, wherever we use the word beauty with
any degree of strictness, we almost always refer it to the
general class of taste. There is a lax usage of the word
beautiful, which implies any thing that is agreeable or
convenient. I have heard country gentlemen talk of a
beautiful scenting-day ; and Mrs. Glasse talks of a
beautiful receipt for curing a ham ; but this is evidently
an analogical, and even a violent, usage of the word.

It is used to the sublime. We say of such a man,
" He has not taste enough to relish the sublimity of the
description ;" or, " Such sublime scenery is quite to his
taste."

The metaphor of taste has never been much extended
to novelty, though there are forms of language in which
it would not be improper to apply it. " Such continued
novelty is not to my taste ;" — " I go into different socie-
ties, because I have a strong relish for novelty." How-
ever, the word does not seem so well placed here, and
does not satisfy the ear so cleverly as in the preceding
instances ; and perhaps for this reason the word taste
is most frequently and emphatically applied, both in its
original", and in its figurative sense, in cases of some diffi-

150 LECTURE XII.

culty. If a man were to discover that vinegar was
sour, we should give him no great credit for his natural
taste. If any man were to discover the true language
of nature and of feeling in this little poem of Mrs. Opie's,
he would gain no credit for his metaphorical taste, be-
cause the beauties of it are too striking for a moment's
hesitation :

rt Go, youth beloved ! in distant glades,

New friends, new hopes, new joys to find !
Yet sometimes deign, midst fairer maids,

• To think on her thou leav'st behind.
Thy love, thy fate, dear youth, to share,

Must never be my happy lot ;
But thou may'st grant this humble prayer, —

Forget me not, forget me not !

" Yet should the thought of my distress

Too painful to thy feelings be,
Heed not the wish I now express,

Nor ever deign to think of me.
But oh ! if grief thy steps attend,

If want, if sickness, be thy lot,
And thou require a soothing friend,

Forget me not, forget me not !"*

For this very reason, the word taste has not been ap-
plied so often to novelty ; because whether a thing be
novel or not, is no question of critical inquiry, but of
plain fact, which one man can answer to with as much
satisfaction as another.

It is certainly applied to ridicule.

Dr. Gerard classes the pleasures of imitation under the
head of taste, for it must be remembered there is a
pleasure arising from mere imitation, whether the original
be agreeable or not. We should be much pleased to see
an accurate picture of the greatest beauty now living ;
and we should not be displeased to see the picture of a
rat or a weasel : the mere imitation itself, abstracted
from all other considerations, gives pleasure ; but though
this pleasure very much resembles those which are said
to be pleasures of taste, and though it ought, perhaps,
from such resemblance, to be so classed, yet I doubt very
much if it ever has been, or if custom has extended the

* Edinburgh Review, i. 116

ON TASTE. 151

metaphor to this sensation. Could we say of a man,
who from frequently gazing on portraits had become a
good judge of their resemblance to the original, that he
had a good taste in imitation ? We might say he had a
good taste in portraits ; meaning by that, that he could
judge of their spirit, their grace, and their beauty : but I
much question if we should refer his accuracy, in judging
of the mere resemblance, to the class of tastes ; though,
as I have before said, I can see no sort of reason why we
do not.

Harmony, which Dr. Gerard enumerates as a separate
object of taste, appears to me to rank under the two
preceding heads of sublimity and beauty. Propriety,
the same author has omitted, though it clearly is one of
the feelings referred to taste. A person observant of
proprieties, is said to have a good taste in manners ; and
any impropriety in any character of a play, or a poem,
is imputed to bad taste,— the discovery of it, to critical
taste.

In the lighter parts of morals, we may, perhaps, use
the metaphor of taste ; but in the greater virtues and
vices, certainly not. If a man were to kill the minister
and church- wardens of his parish, nobody would accuse
him of want of taste. The Scythians always ate their
grandfathers ; they behaved very respectfully to them
for a long time, but as soon as their grandfathers became
old and troublesome, and began to tell long stories, they
immediately eat them : nothing could be more improper,
and even disrespectful, than dining off such near and
venerable relations ; yet we could not with any propriety
accuse them of bad taste in morals. Neither is the
word taste used in subjects of pure reasoning. We
could not say, that he who discovered an error in a
mathematical problem had a good taste for reasoning;
that he who made the error had a bad taste ; — to find
that 12 times 12 is 144, is not a business of taste.
Neither can we use the word taste with respect to very
useful inventions. We could not say that Bolton and
Watt exhibited a great deal of taste in the improvements
they made upon the steam-engine ; nor could we say
that Archimedes exhibited a fine taste in the machines

152 LECTURE XII.

he invented for dashing to pieces the Roman galleys, and
knocking out the brains of the Roman soldiers. Some
of these things appear too important for the application
of that word ; others, too certain. It seems to have
been intended that the metaphor should apply to feelings
connected with pleasure and pain, not with duties and
crimes ; with the superfluous, the lighter, and more
luxurious sensations of the mind, not with those which
become the subjects of approbation and disapprobation ;
not with those parts of knowledge which are reducible to
proof and demonstration, but in those which are shaded
with doubt, and rest only on the basis of opinion. In
order to see the tendency and spirit of the metaphor, try
to misapply it in one or two instances, and observe what
sort of feelings and objections the misapplication suggests.
Suppose any body were to talk to you of the bad taste of
a mother who had murdered her child, what would your
answer be ? " Do you call that by the light name of
taste, on which the dearest interests of mankind depend ?
Is the feeling which a mother has for her child to be
classed with the love of splendid colors, accurate imita-
tion, and judicious description ? Is there the same
doubt which hangs upon both ? Are the great rules of
morals referable to no other and more certain proofs
than those which decide upon the novel, the beautiful,
and the sublime ?" These are the feelings and objections
which naturally pass through every man's mind, and
evince the conceptions he has gradually formed of the
limits and province of taste.

There is another consideration, perhaps, which has
contributed to affix the limits of this metaphor. When
we ascribe good or bad taste to any one, it is most com-
monly for doing or feeling something, where he was at
full liberty to have done or said the contrary. We are
not apt to impute the excellence, or the defect, where
there is no fair exertion of the will. We may say of a
lady that she walks in good taste, but not that she
tumbles down in good taste. We could not say that a
lady fainted away in good taste, though I think we
might speak of a good and bad taste in blushing. For
the same reason, we can not talk of the bad taste of deep

ON TASTE. 153

melancholy or despair, or the bad taste of being very-
short and very ugly ; because it is presumed that all
men and women would be cheerful, tall, and beautiful, if
they could.

Natural tastes are sometimes so plain and strong, that
they are immediately pronounced upon by every body.
The most determined skeptic, if you catch him in a
moment of candor, would allow that a good ripe peach
was sweet. We say that a man recognizes this plain,
indisputable fact by his taste, though he exercises no
reasoning powers, and employs no reflection in arriving
at the determination. So in the plainest and most
undoubted examples of intellectual taste. If he were
struck with some of the sublimest traits of Mrs. Siddons'
acting, or if he was enchanted with the first view of
Juan Fernandez, we should still refer these impressions
to the class of tastes, even though they had cost him no
effort in the acquisition, and though the feelings followed
in all human beings as directly as any one fact can
follow another in the various works of nature. We
should call the detection of good or bad flavor, made by
repeated efforts and close attention, an act of taste ; and
in the same manner the detection of beauty or deformity
in intellectual taste, with whatever degree of labor and
reflection effected. If, from natural superiority of that
organ, any man could discover flavor, insensible to
common palates, we of course should refer his power,
however extraordinary, to taste. Or if, by long practice,
he had acquired the same rapid precision, we should still
refer it to the same bodily organ. So in the intellectual
taste, whether the feeling follow immediately upon the
perception, whether it be preceded by critical investiga-
tion, whether it be unusually delicate and true, either
from natural talents or long habit, the feeling is always
referred to taste, which is a general word for that affec-
tion of the mind existing in any degree, and proceeding
from any cause. I lay the greater stress upon this
observation, because I perceive in many persons who
speculate upon these subjects, a disposition only to
allow the use of the word in cases where there is a
critical, active exertion of the mind, and an effort to

154 LECTURE XII.

discriminate ; whereas it is undoubtedly used also, in
those cases where the mind is merely passive, and where
the feeling of beauty would be strongly excited in any
human being, without the smallest effort to judge between
conflicting sensations.

The subject of taste has given rise to a very curious
controversy ; — whether every feeling of taste depends
upon accidental association, or whether, by the original
constitution of nature, it is connected with any par-
ticular object of sense, it is admitted on all hands that
the feeling of beauty and sublimity very frequently, and
even in a great majority of instances, depends upon
mere association. For one instance : — in the estimation
of Europeans, part of the beauty of a face is the color
of the cheek ; not that there is something in that partic-
ular position of red color, which, I believe, is of itself
beautiful, — but habit has connected it also with the idea
of health. An Indian requires that his wife's face should
be of the color of good marketable sea-coal ; another
tribe is enamored of deep orange ; and a cheek of copper
is irresistible to a fourth. Every color is agreeable, in
each of these instances, which is connected with the idea
of youth and beauty ; the beauty is not in the color
itself, but in the notions which the color summons up.
Instances of this source of our ideas of the beautiful are
innumerable, and universally admitted. The question
is, Is there any object which originally, and of itself, ex-
cites that feeling? The very newest and the most
fashionable philosophy says, No. The Rev. Mr. Alison,
in his very beautiful work on Taste, says no, — and says
no, as he says every thing, with great modesty, and great
ingenuity ; but though he is a very agreeable writer, and
one of the best of men, I have very great doubts if he is
right in his system. "In the first place," says Mr.
Alison, " every feeling of beauty and sublimity is an
emotion. Now mere matter is unfitted to produce any
kind of emotion." If this be true, it settles the question ;
it is only upon the supposition that mere matter can
produce emotion, that the opposite opinion has ever been
advanced : it is precisely the thing to be proved. It
appears to me very singular to say, that mere matter

ON TASTE. 155

can never produce emotion upon the senses, and that
we can only apply to it the expressions of sensation and
perception. The theory of this school is, that Provi-
dence has created a great number of objects which it
intends you should see, hear, feel, taste, and smell, with-
out caring a single breath whether you exercised your
senses upon them or not ; that all the primary impulses
of the mind must be mere intelligences, unaccompanied
by any emotion of pleasure ; that pleasure might be
added to them afterward, by pure accident, but that
originally, and according to the scheme of nature, the
senses were the channels of intelligence, never the
sources of gratification. This doctrine was certainly
never conceived in a land of luxury. I should like to
try a Scotch gentleman, upon his first arrival in this
country, with the taste of ripe fruit, and leave him to
judge after that, whether nature had confined the senses
to such dry and ungracious occupations, as whether
mere matter could produce emotion. Such doctrines
may do very well in the chambers of a northern meta-
physician, but they are untenable in the light of the
world ; they are refuted, nobly refuted, twenty times in
a year, at Fishmongers' Hall. If you deny that matter
can produce emotion, judge on these civic occasions, of
the power of gusts, and relishes, and flavors ! Look at
men when (as Bishop Taylor says) they are " gathered
round the eels of Syene, and the oysters of Lucrinus,
and when the Lesbian and Chian wines descend through
the limbec of the tongue and larynx ; when they receive
the juice of fishes, and the marrow of the laborious ox,
and the tender lard of Apulian swine, and the condited
stomach of the scams :" — is this nothing but mere sen-
sation ? is there no emotion, no panting, no wheezing,
no deglutition ? is this the calm acquisition of intelli-
gence, and the quiet office ascribed to the senses ? — or
is it a proof that Nature has infused into her original
creations, the power of gratifying that sense which dis-
tinguishes them, and to every atom of matter has added
an atom of joy ?

That there are some tastes originally agreeable, I
think can hardly be denied ; and that Nature has origi-

156 LECTURE XII.

nally, and independently of all associations, made some
sounds more agreeable than others, seems to me, I con-
fess, equally clear. I can never believe that any man
could sit in a pensive mood listening to the sharpening
of a saw, and think it as naturally agreeable, and as
plaintive, as the song of a linnet ; and I should very
much suspect that philosophy, which teaches that the
odor of superannuated Cheshire cheese, is, by the con-
stitution of nature, and antecedent to all connection of
other ideas, as agreeable as that smell with which the
flowers of the field thank Heaven for the gentle rains, or
as the fragrance of the spring when w T e inhale from afar
" the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale."

One circumstance, which appears to have led to these
conclusions, is the example of those same sensations
which are sometimes ludicrous, sometimes sublime,
sometimes fearful, according to the ideas with which
they are associated. For instance, the sound of a trum-
pet suggests the dreadful idea of a battle, and of the
approach of armed men ; but to all men brought up at
Queen's College, Oxford, it must be associated with eat-
ing and drinking, for they are always called to dinner
by sound of trumpet : and I have a little daughter at
home, who, if she heard the sound of a trumpet, would
run to the window, expecting to see the puppet-show of
Punch, which is carried about the streets. So with a
hiss : a hiss is either foolish, or tremendous, or sublime.
The hissing of a pancake is absurd : the first faint hiss
that arises from the extremity of the pit on the evening
of a new play, sinks the soul of the author within him,
and makes him curse himself and his Thalia ; the hissing
of a cobra di capello is sublime, — it is the whisper of
death ! But all these instances prove nothing ; for we
are not denying that there are many sounds, tastes, and
sights, which nature has made so indifferent, that asso-
ciation may make them any thing. It is very true what
Mr. Alison says, " that there are many sensations uni-
versally called sublime, which association may make
otherwise."* This is true enough, but it is not to the
purpose. I admit readily, that a fortuitous connection
* Alison on Taste, p. 139.

ON TASTE. 157

of thought can make it otherwise than sublime ; but the
question is, Did it receive from nature the character of
sublime ? does any thing receive from nature the char-
acter of sublime, or the character of beautiful ? and
would any thing perpetually display, and constantly pre-
serve, such character, if no accident intervened to raise
up a contrary association ? Certainty on such subjects
can not be attained ; but I, for one, strongly believe in
the affirmative of the question, — that Nature speaks to
the mind of man immediately in beautiful and sublime
language ; that she astonishes him with magnitude,
appals him with darkness, cheers him with splendor,
soothes him with harmony, captivates him with emotion,
enchants him with fame; she never intended man should
walk among her flowers, and her fields, and her streams,
unmoved ; nor did she rear the strength of the hills in
vain, or mean that we should look with a stupid heart
on the wild glory of the torrent, bursting from the dark-
ness of the forest, and dashing over the crumbling rock.
I would as soon deny hardness, or softness, or figure, to
be qualities of matter, as I would deny beauty or
sublimity to belong to its qualities.

Every man is as good a judge of a question like this,
as the ablest metaphysician. Walk in the fields in one
of the mornings of May, and if you carry with you a
mind unpolluted with harm, watch how it is impressed.
You are delighted with the beauty of colors ; are not
those colors beautiful ? You breathe vegetable fragrance ;
is not that fragrance grateful ? You see the sun rising
from behind a mountain, and the heavens painted with
light; is not that renewal of the light of the morning
sublime ? You reject all obvious reasons, and say that
these things are beautiful and sublime because the acci-
dents of life have made them so ; — I say they are beau-
tiful and sublime, because God has made them so ! that
it is the original, indelible character impressed upon
them by Him, who has opened these sources of simple
pleasure, to calm, perhaps, the perturbations of sense,
and to make us love that joy which is purchased without
giving pain to another man's heart, and without entailing
reproach upon our own.

158 LECTURE XII.

There is one other question, before I conclude this
subject, on which I wish to say something ; a question
like a German chancery suit, which is handed down
from father to son as a matter of course, and the de-
cision of which no man ever dreams of as a possible
event. Some late traveler in Germany speaks of a suit
in the imperial chamber of Wetzlar, which had been
pending 170 years. The cause came on for a first hear-
ing as he passed through the country ; the result he did
not hear, as the Teutonic Master of the Rolls took
time to consider. In the same manner, the world is
always taking time to consider about the standard of
taste. Is there any standard of taste, and what is it ?
This is the question that has been discussed and re-dis-
cussed from time immemorial, and in which question I
suppose I have little to add to those who have so often
handled it before me. As I have before said, taste is a
general term for a great number of distinct feelings :
if there be no standard for approbation and disappro-
bation in these feelings, which are the constituent ele-
ments of taste, there is no standard for taste ; but if a
good and a bad can be asserted of these feelings with
any degree of certainty, then there is a standard of
taste. Let us try it in one of the departments of taste,
the beautiful ; and then the question will be, is there
any standard of the beautiful ? Now, if a delirious
virtuoso were to purchase one of those sign-paintings in
which King Charles the Second, seated on the oak-tree,
announces the dispensation of beer and other uncourtly
refreshments, and if he were to pronounce it more beau-
tiful than Mr. Troward's noble picture by Leonardo da
Vinci,* — so long as he thinks it is so, it unquestionably
is so to him. There can be no doubt but that he is the
standard of taste to himself, because, when he calls the
thing beautiful, he only means to say that it excites in
him that emotion, of the real existence of which he of
course can be the only judge. But will this same sign-
post appear beautiful to others ? and to whom ? and to

* This picture of the Logos was in the possession of Mr. Troward
when this lecture was deliveTed : it is now in the collection of Mr. Miles,
of Leigh Court, near Bristol.

ON TASTE. 159

how many must it appear to be so, before you call it
absolutely beautiful ? To the mob, to all human beings,
or only to the enlightened few ? I answer to this, that
the judges differ just according to the difficulty of the
subject : there are some questions of the beautiful so
very simple, for the decision of which such very little
understanding is required, and where the experience of
all men is so much upon a level, that in those, the mass
of mankind are certainly the proper referees. Are
splendid colors more beautiful than dull colors ? Is a
soft surface more agreeable than a hard surface ? In
such simple questions of beauty as this, the most ordi-
nary understanding is as good as the best. But when you
come to the complicated meaning of the word beauty,
adopted in the phrase of " a beautiful poem," or " a
beautiful picture," — when the subject is to be under-
stood, the selection decided on, comparison with other
rival efforts made, — a laborer from the streets can be no
judge of such excellences as these, and therefore his
opinion can form no part of that standard to which 1
refer the decision in this species of beauty ; for we must
take along with us, that as the word taste is merely a
general expression for several distinct feelings, so the
term beauty, itself involves no small number of distinct
feelings which have received this common appellation.
If, then, the species of beauty be stated, and a standard
required for its excellences and defects, I determine it
by voting, by no means admitting universal suffrage,
but requiring that a man shall have forty shillings a year
in common sense, and have paid the usual taxes of labor,
attention, observation, and so on. But, to drop the
metaphor, these are the ingredients which must enter
into the composition of any mind which can be allowed
to decide upon any species of beauty. In the first place
there must be an absence of all prejudice and party
spirit, because, though this may inspire the feeling of
beauty, as well as any other cause, still it is a very
ephemeral cause of that feeling ; and in speaking of the
standard of beauty, we do not mean only that which
will be judged beautiful to-day, but that which will be
judged beautiful for ages to come. Then we must re-

160 LECTURE XII.

member, that the word beautiful always implies some
comparison. The prose of Bunyan is agreeable to me
till 1 have read that of Dryden ; Dryden's, till I am fa-
miliarized to the works of Addison. The arrantest daub
in painting may appear agreeable to me, till I have seen
the masters in the Flemish school ; and I cease to ad-
mire these latter when I am become acquainted with
the great Italian pictures. The very term beautiful
implies something superior to common effects ; and
therefore we require in a judge of the beautiful, that
from experience he should have ascertained what is a
common effect, what not. A man who has seen very
few pictures, is a bad judge of any single picture, be-
cause, though he can tell whether he is pleased or not,
he can not tell whether he is pleased more or less than
he should be by pictures in general. Therefore, in ad-
dition to candor, a judge of the beautiful must have
experience ; — and he must also have delicacy of feeling:
a man may reason himself out of this feeling of beauty,
or reason himself into it ; but, after all, the thing is a
matter of feeling, and there are some men of such me-
tallic nerves, and blunt entrails, that Milton could never
have written them into sublimity, or Michael Angelo
painted them into emotion : of course they can be no
judges of the beautiful, any more than the blind can de-
termine upon the diversity of colors. Wherever, then,
the standard of any species of beauty is required, we
may safely say it rests in the opinion of candid men, of
men who have had experience in that department of
beauty, who have feeling for it, and who have competent
understandings to judge of the design and reasoning,
which are always the highest and most excellent of all
beauties. Such men, where they are to be found, form
the standard in every department of beauty, and in
every ingredient of taste. How such critics are to be
found, is another question : that they exist, no man
doubts ; and their joint influence ultimately prevails, and
gives the law to public opinion. But I hear some men
asking where they are to be found ? and who they are ?
with a sort of exultation, as if there were any wit, or
talent, or importance, in the question. They are to be

ON TASTE. 161

found in Dover Street, Albemarle Street, Berkeley Square,
the Temple ; anywhere wherever reading, thinking men,
who have seen a great deal of the world, are to be
found. I myself could mention the names of twenty-
persons, whose opinions influence the public taste in this
town ; and then, when opinions are settled here, those
opinions go down by the mail-coach, to regulate all mat-
ters of taste for the provinces.

The progress of good taste, however, though it is
certain and irresistible, is slow. Mistaken pleasantry,
false ornament, and affected conceit, perish by the dis-
criminating hand of time, that lifts up from the dust of
oblivion, the grand and simple efforts of genius. Title,
rank, prejudice, party, artifice, and a thousand disturbing
forces, are always at work to confer unmerited fame ;
but every recurring year contributes its remedy to these
infringements on justice and good sense. The breath
of living acclamation can not reach the ages which are
to come : the judges and the judged are no more ; passion
is extinguished ; party is forgotten : and the mild yet
inflexible decisions of taste, will receive nothing, as the
price of praise, but the solid exertions of superior talent.
Justice is pleasant, even when she destroys. It is a
grateful homage to common sense, to see those produc-
tions hastening to that oblivion, in their progress to which
they should never have been retarded. But it is much
more pleasant to witness the power of taste in the work
of preservation and lasting praise ; — to think that, in
these fleeting and evanescent feelings of the beautiful
and the sublime, men have discovered something as fixed
and as positive, as if they were measuring the flow of the
tides, or weighing the stones on which they tread ; — to
think that there lives not, in the civilized world, a being
who knows he has a mind, and who knows not that
Virgil and Homer have written, that Raffaelle has paint-
ed, and that Tully has spoken. Intrenched in these ever-
lasting bulwarks against barbarism, Taste points out to
the races of men, as they spring up in the order of time,
on what path they shall guide the labors of the human
spirit. Here she is safe ; hence she never can be driven,

162 LECTURE XII.

while one atom of matter clings to another, and till
man, with all his wonderful system of feeling and thought,
is called away to Him who is the great Author of all
that is beautiful, and all that is sublime, and all that is
good!

LECTURE XIII.

ON THE BEAUTIFUL.

The three next lectures which I propose to deliver in
this place, will be on the same subject as that with which
I am at present engaged {the Beautiful). I have found
it quite impossible to compress this very ample subject
into a less space ; and even with such limits I have been
compelled to pass over many topics of discussion with a
brevity very ill suited to their importance, and little fa-
vorable to perspicuity. I mention the length to which I
intend to carry this discussion, lest any one should con-
ceive, after I had finished this lecture, that I had done
with the subject, and consequently had treated it very je-
junely and imperfectly : that I shall treat it imperfectly
enough at last, I can easily believe ; but still I prefer to
be judged after I am heard, rather than before.

The best evidence we can procure of the resemblance
of our feelings, is by language. When men give one
common name to very dissimilar objects, it is most prob-
able that they give it because these objects, though ap-
parently dissimilar, produce effects upon the mind which
materially resemble each other : therefore, the mode in
which I propose to examine the nature of the beautiful,
is, first, to state the fact with respect to language, the
various classes of objects and occasions where a person
understanding his own language thoroughly, and apply-
ing it properly, would use the expression of beautiful.

In the first place, it is applied to the simplest sensa-
tions of sight, as color, figure, and so forth ; it is applied
to sounds, either simple or compound ; but, I believe,
neither to touch, taste, nor smell. We should not say
that the feeling of velvet, or the taste of sugar, or the

164 LECTURE XIII.

smell of a rose, was beautiful : the latter instance, how-
ever, is rather doubtful ; if the expression be not already-
legitimated, I think we may say it will be so very soon.
We apply the expression to the face of nature, to land-
scape, to personal appearance, to animals, to poetry,
painting, sculpture, and all the fine arts which are called
mimetic, and represent animate or inanimate nature.
We apply it to several moral feelings of the mind, to
architecture, and to invention in machinery. These
are, I fancy, the principal subjects which justify the ap-
plication of the word.

There is one usage of the word to which I shall not
refer in the subsequent discussion, because it is evident-
ly used in a figurative sense ; as when we say that any
thing which is good, is beautiful ; and in this sense we
should say that Milton's description of the falling angels
was beautiful, though in strictness it is sublime, and not
beautiful : —

" Him. the Almighty Power
Hurl'd headlong flaming from the ethereal sky,
With hideous ruin and combustion, down
To bottomless perdition ; there to dwell
In adamantine chains and penal fire,
Who durst defy the Omnipotent to arms.
Nine times the space that measures day and night
To mortal men, he with his horrid crew
Lay vanquish'd, rolling in the fiery gulf,
Confounded, though immortal : But his doom
Reserv'd him to more wrath ; for now the thought
Both of lost happiness, and lasting pain,
Torments him ; round he throws his baleful eyes,
That witness'd huge affliction and dismay
Mixt with obdurate pride and steadfast hate
At once, as far as angels, ken, he views
The dismal situation waste and wild :
A dungeon horrible on all sides round,
As one great furnace flam'd ; yet from those flames
No light ; but rather darkness visible
Serv'd only to discover sights of woe,
Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace
And rest can never dwell ; hope never comes
That comes to all ; but torture without end
Still urges, and a fiery deluge, fed
With ever-burning sulphur unconsum'd."

But the word beautiful, as a general word for excellence,
is a part of that practice in language, which, where there

ON THE BEAUTIFUL. 165

are many qualities, or many things, puts one of the most
conspicuous, to stand for the whole. Thus, virtue, which
originally signifies personal courage, has become a gen-
eral name for all good qualities. England is the general
name for all the three branches of the empire ; and the
beautiful has become a general term for all the various
excellences in poetry.

Having, then, ascertained the facts respecting the ap-
plication of the term beauty, there are two things which
remain to be done, — to ascertain the causes, in each re-
spective instance, which excite the feeling of the beauti-
ful in my mind ; and next, to discover whether these va-
rious examples of this feeling, which are called by a
common name, do, in fact, possess a common nature :
for if I can point out the cause or causes of this emotion,
or class of emotions, and ascertain its nature, or their na-
tures, I see nothing else which I have to do.

A very great ambiguity has arisen in all language,
from the confusion which has been made between the
causes which act upon the mind, and the affections of
the mind itself. In hardness or softness, there ought to
be one word to signify that cause, which impresses the
mind in that particular manner, and another for the im-
pression itself. So in beauty, the same word expresses
the emotion of the mind, and the cause of that emotion :
it is absolutely necessary, in order to arrive at any defi-
nite opinions on this subject, to specify to ourselves and
others, in which of these two senses we are making use
of the term ; and, to follow my own advice, I use the
term beauty always as a feeling of the mind. When I
say that such an object is beautiful, I mean that it has in
itself the power of exciting in my mind that particular feel-
ing. It does all very well in popular language, where no
great precision is wanted, to say that a landscape is beau-
tiful ; or the expression may stand where men know how
to translate it into common sense : but in strictness the
feeling only can be in my mind ; — the causes which ex-
cite that feeling, whatever they be, are in the landscape ;
all the effects which these causes can produce, are in me.
Emotion can not reside upon the banks of rivers, or be
green with the grass, flexible with the boughs, and pearly

166 LECTURE XIII.

with the dew : the causes of this particular emotion may
be in matter ; the thing itself can not.

I hear some men contend that beauty, in strictness,
only means personal beauty, or beauty of landscape ; and
that when applied to such objects as an ox, or an inven-
tion, as in a steam-engine, it is merely a metaphor.
Now a metaphor is nothing but a short simile, and a
simile is a resemblance ; and why, I should be glad to
know, is one feeling of the mind, by general consent, said
to resemble another feeling of the mind, if, in fact, there
is no resemblance between them ? If it be used meta-
phorically, it is the clearest proof that mankind have felt
a resemblance, which has guided them in the application
of the metaphor. When you compare an object of sense,
to a feeling of mind, as pity to a balsam, or the feeling
of anger to a storm, it is very obvious that such metaphors
are derived from those faint analogies which are conve-
nient enough for poetry, but utterly unsuitable to phi-
losophy. But where mankind, or great numbers of
mankind, have agreed to call two mere feelings by the
same name, or, as other persons would say, to use one
metaphorically for the other, it is a pretty clear proof
that these two feelings do very strongly resemble each
other.

First, it is necessary to observe that the term beauty,
to whatever object it is applied, is applied only to that
which is very superior to other objects of the same
species. Suppose an average appearance in human
countenances, the term beauty is applied only where that
average is very far exceeded ; it is as emphatical on one
side of the middle point, as ugly is on the other, — both
point at extremes. So in poetry ; a beautiful poem is
one very superior to the common merit of poetry : a
beautiful invention in mechanics is one in which much
more than ordinary ingenuity is displayed. It is always
a term of the superlative degree, implying comparison,
and an opinion of pre-eminence, the result of that com-
parison.

I shall set out, after these premises, with reasserting
my opinion, advanced in the last lecture, that beauty is
an original quality of matter : not that all matter has it,

ON THE BEAUTIFUL. 167

any more than all matter has hardness ; but that some
matter has it, as some matter has hardness. As I said a
great deal about it in my last lecture, I shall not ex-
patiate further on this subject at present, but assume the
principle, and reason upon it.

Though I contend that there is an original beauty of
matter, I do not by any means lay much stress upon it,
or compare it with that feeling of the beautiful which
matter excites when associated with some agreeable
quality of mind. I believe a clear red, passing through
a beautiful white color, is of itself beautiful ; but it is
certainly more beautiful w T hen it becomes the sign of
health, and we learn habitually to consider it as such.
The lively green that the herbage assumes after rain, is
of itself agreeable to the eye, but it is infinitely more
agreeable when that color becomes the sign of plenty, of
freshness, of liberty, of boundless range, and innocent
enjoyment, and all the pleasures of mind we associate
with the idea of the country.

" For what are all
The forms which brute, unconscious matter wears, —
Greatness of bulk, or symmetry of parts ?
Not reaching to the heart, soon feeble grows
The superficial impulse ; dull their charms,
And satiate soon, and pall the languid eye.
Not so the moral species, nor the powers
Of genius and design ; the ambitious mind
There sees herself: by these congenial forms
Touch'd and awaken'd, with intenser act
She bends each nerve, and meditates well pleas'd
Her features in the mirror. For, of all
The inhabitants of earth, to man alone
Creative Wisdom gave to lift his eye
To Truth's eternal measures ; thence to frame
The sacred laws of action and of will,
Discerning justice from unequal deeds,
And temperance from folly."*

I shall begin the analysis of the beautiful with music,
a subject which I can not pass over, but in which I must
beg for great indulgence, because it is impossible for any
one to be more completely ignorant of that art than I
am. Let us take the plainest instance, simple melody, or

* Akenside's " Pleasures of Imagination," line 526.

168 LECTURE XIII.

an air sung by the human voice ; why do we call this
combination of sounds beautiful, and what is the cause
of the striking and beautiful emotion we derive from it ?
In the first place, because each single sound of which the
air is composed is beautiful, — that is, it is beautiful if the
voice be good ; for I should suppose that any air sung
by a wretched voice, or performed upon such an instru-
ment as the bagpipe, could not with any propriety be
denominated beautiful ; it may become so from associa-
tion, but it requires the aid of association to make it so.
We may say this air, sung by a good voice, or performed
upon a good instrument, would be beautiful ; but this is
only describing what other sounds would be, not saying
what these are. Therefore, a simple air, sung by a
good voice, is beautiful for one reason, because each
particular sound of which it is composed is beautiful ;
and the pleasure is of course immensely increased, from
the variation and contrast of these sounds.

" And ever, against eating cares,
Lap me in soft Lydian airs,

* * * -55- *

In notes, with many a winding bout
Of linked sweetness long draw out,
With wanton heed and giddy cunning ;
The melting voice through mazes running,
Untwisting all the chains that tie
The hidden soul of harmony."

Melody is not only beautiful from its variety of ori-
ginally beautiful sounds, but from its originally beautiful
combinations. Some two notes joined together are
naturally agreeable, others naturally disagreeable : at
least, it is the commonly received opinion that concords
are pleasant, discords unpleasant, from the constitution
of our organs of hearing. Whether this be the fact, and
whether concords here are concords the world through,
I can not take upon me to determine ; but, however this
be, the fact is indisputable, that very unpracticed ears are
delighted with some combinations of sounds, and that
this pleasure must be considered as another additional
cause of the beauty of music. Rhythm, or number in
music, is a copious source of variety and uniformity ;

ON THE BEAUTIFUL. 169

every piece of regular music is, as every one knows,
supposed to be divided into small portions, separated in
writing by a cross line, called a bar, which, whether they
contain more or fewer sounds, are all equal in respect of
time. In this way the rhythm is a source of uniformity,
which pleases by suggesting the agreeable ideas of
regularity, and, still more, by rendering the music in-
telligible. But the principal cause of the beauty of
music is, that it can be translated into feelings of the
mind. Let a simple air be sung by a pleasing voice, not
in words, but in articulate sounds, — as it is quick, or as
it is solemn, as it is high or low, we immediately connect
it with some feeling ; because experience has taught us
that some of our passions are expressed in a solemn
measure and low tone, others in quick measure and with
an elevation of voice. If any one were for the first time
to hear the tune of "Farewell to Lochaber," without
words, there could, I should think, be little doubt but
that he would associate it with some calm, melancholy
emotion : nor could any person imagine that such a tune
as that of "Dainty Davy," was intended to express
profound and inconsolable grief. In these airs, we
immediately associate with them some feeling of mind,
and from this association their beauty is principally
derived. " The objects, therefore, which produce such
sensations, though in themselves not the immediate signs
of such interesting or affecting qualities, yet, in conse-
quence of this resemblance, become gradually expressive
of them ; and, if not always, yet at those times, at least,
when we are under the dominion of any emotion, serve
to bring to our minds the images of all those affecting or
interesting qualities, which we have been accustomed to
suppose they resemble. How extensive this source of
association is, may easily be observed in the extent of
such kinds of figurative expression in every language."*
Nothing can be more just and philosophical than these
opinions of Mr. Alison and Dr. Beattie. Music itself
can express only classes of feelings ; it can express only
melancholy, not any particular instance or action of
melancholy. The tune of " Lochaber," which I have

* Alison, p. 185.

170 LECTURE XIII.

before alluded to, expresses the pathetic in general ; lan-
guage only can tell us that it is that particular instance
of the pathetic, where a poor soldier takes leave of his
native land, Lochaber, and his wife Jean, with a feeling
that he shall see them no more : —

'• Borne on rough seas to a far distant shore,
I'll maybe return to Lochaber no more !"

Therefore, the principal cause of the beauty of melody
is, that as we hear the air, we not only translate it into
human feelings, but, remembering the words connected
with it, we summon up the particular exemplification of
that feeling ; we think of the poor soldier who is never
to see again his wife and his children in Lochaber ; we
love his affection for that spot where he has spent many
blithesome days, and we are touched with his misery.
Whenever we hear an air to which we know no words,
it can inspire only general emotion, and the comparative
effect is feeble ; when poetry applies the general emotion
to particular instances, musical expression has attained
its maximum of effect. It is said that the " Pastorale " of
Corelli was intended for an imitation of the song of
angels hovering above the fields of Bethlehem, and
gradually soaring up to heaven ; it is impossible, how-
ever, that the music itself can convey any such expres-
sion, — it can convey only the feelings of solemnity, of
rapture, of enthusiasm ; imagination must do the rest.
If another name were given to this piece of music, and
it were supposed to relate to a much less awful event,
its effects, though still powerful, would be very con-
siderably diminished.

Such appear to me to be the causes of that feeling of
the beautiful excited by simple melody. The more
complicated beauty of harmony is easiest explained by
denying that it has any beauty ; the music often praised
by professors and connoisseurs has often no other merit
than that of difficulty overcome, which excites the feel-
ing of wonder, not of beauty : the mass of hearers, who
can not estimate the difficulty, can not participated the
admiration ; they can derive no other gratification from it
than the mere animal pleasure of beautiful sounds, which,

ON THE BEAUTIFUL. 171

when they are devoid of moral expression, soon fatigue and
disgust : and the parts of a long concerto which give uni-
versal pleasure are precisely those which do excite some
feeling, which express either what is gay, or the strong pas-
sions, or a pleasing melancholy. See the effects of a long
piece of music at a public concert. The orchestra are
breathless with attention, jumping into major and minor
keys, executing figures, and fiddling with the most ecstatic
precision. In the midst of all this wonderful science, the
audience are gaping, lolling, talking, staring about, and
half devoured with ennui. On a sudden there springs up
a lively little air, expressive of some natural feeling, though
in point of science not worth a halfpenny : the audience
all spring up, every head nods, every foot beats time, and
every heart also ; an universal smile breaks out on every
face ; the carriage is not ordered ; and every one agrees
that music is the most delightful rational entertainment
that the human mind can possibly enjoy. In the same
manner the astonishing execution of some great singers
has in it very little of the beautiful ; it is mere difficulty
overcome, like rope-dancing and tumbling ; and such
difficulties overcome (as I have before said) do not ex-
cite the feeling of the beautiful, but of the wonderful.

Independently of these causes of pleasure in music, it
may be aided by innumerable associations. It may be
national music ; it may record some great exploit of my
countrymen, as the " Belleisle March ;" it may be the
" Ranz des Vaches ;" and innumerable other causes may
aid its effects. In very loud music, as the organ, or in
the assemblage of many instruments, an immediate phy-
sical effect is produced upon the body, independent of
any feeling of the mind. I have seen one or two people
so nervous, that they could not hear an organ without
crying ; and every body remembers the innumerable in- '
stances of fainting and weeping at the commemoration;
in the Abbey, merely from the effect produced upon the
nerves by sound. So that, to sum up all the causes I
have alledged of the beautiful in music, we may say it'
proceeds from an original power in sound to create that
feeling, either in its simplest state, or in those instances
of its combinations which we call concords; that that-

172 LECTURE XIII.

feeling of beautiful may be aided by our admiration of
the skill displayed in harmony, as one agreeable feeling
always aids and increases another; — but that the prin-
cipal cause of beauty in music, is the facility with which
it is associated with feeling, from its resemblance to the
tones in which feelings are expressed ; and that these
feelings are made specific by the ministration of poetry,
from the combination of which with music, great part of
the power of the latter is derived.

Passing from the beauty judged of by the ear, to that
which falls under the province of sight, I can not (as I
have before said) agree with those who would consider
all colors as originally equally pleasing to the eye. I
admit, association can make any color agreeable, or any
disagreeable : but I contend, that, antecedent to all
association, the eye delights in one color more than
another ; that it passes over some with indifference, and
receives exquisite delight from others. Fling among
some common pebbles a Bristol stone, or some bits of
colored glass ; present them to a child of two years old,
which will he seize upon first ? When Captain Cook
first broached his cargo of beads among the savages,
and bought a large hog for a couple of beads, which
were not worth the decimal of a farthing, — what asso-
ciation can it be imagined the savages had formed with
the various colors which proved so alluring to their
eyes? The association, philosophers would tell us, that
they liked blue, because it was the color of the sky ;
white, because it was the color of the day. But why
did they like faint yellow ? why orange color ? why
deep purple ? and why would they have rejected un-
glazed beads, as dull as this green baize, or of a color
as insipid as that of a common stone ? It seems so very
strange to me, that men should doubt any more of the
gluttony of the eye than of the gluttony of the mouth.
As the palate feasts upon savory and sweet, the ear
feasts upon melody, and the eye gorges upon light and
color till it aches with pleasure.

With respect to the beauty of forms, I am much more
inclined to agree that there is no original beauty of
form ; but that it entirely depends on association. For

ON THE BEAUTIFUL. 173

the superior pleasure I receive from bright and trans-
parent colors, to that of which I am conscious in looking
at those which are dull and opaque, I can give no reason.
It appears to me an original fact, that the perception of
this color should be followed by the emotion of beauty.
But I can not say the same of forms : I certainly prefer
one form to another, but then I think I can always give
some reason for the preference.

We must divide forms into those which are simple,
and those which are compounded of many other forms ;
and it appears to me the following causes may be stated
of that feeling of the beautiful, excited by the forms of
objects.

Any form which excites the idea of smoothness, or
faint resistance to the touch, is beautiful ; except where
such notion of smoothness is accidentally united with
any unpleasing notion.

" On the whole," says Mr. Burke, " if such parts in
human bodies as are found proportioned, were likewise
constantly found beautiful, — as they certainly are not ;
or if they were so situated, as that a pleasure might flow
from the comparison, — which they seldom are ; or if any
assignable proportions were found, either in plants or
animals, which were always attended with beauty, —
which never was the case ; or if, where parts were well
adapted to their purposes, they were constantly beau-
tiful, and when no use appeared, there was no beauty, —
which is contrary to all experience ; we might conclude
that beauty consisted in proportion or utility. But
since, in all respects, the case is quite otherwise, we
may be satisfied that beauty does not depend on these,
let it owe its origin to what else it will."*

The form of a solid globe of glass would be much more
beautiful than if its surface were broken into inequalities,
because it would be much more agreeable to the touch.
Is, then, the smoothness of trees cut into a round form,
more beautiful than their natural irregularity and rough-
ness ? No, certainly not ; it gives an idea of restraint
and injury to the tree, which is painful. Is the smooth-
ness of a swelled face beautiful ? No, it gives the idea

* Burke, p. 230.

174 LECTURE XIII.

of disease. Here are disagreeable associations connected
with the appearance of smoothness ; but any single ob-
ject, considered by itself, is considered as more beautiful
when smooth than when rough, except where (as I have
said before) the roughness is the sign of a pleasant, or
the smoothness of an unpleasant, quality.

The forms of regular figures are agreeable, from the
relations observed between the parts. The mind takes
some pleasure in noticing that one side of a square is
precisely like the other ; that one angle is exactly of the
same magnitude as its diagonal. All forms which are
regular are much more distinctly comprehended, and
easily retained, than any irregular form ; because the
accurate observation of one or two parts often leads to
the knowledge of the whole. Thus, from a side, and
solid angle, we j\ave the whole regular solid ; the meas-
ure of one side gives the whole square, one radius the
whole circle, two diameters an oval, one ordinate and
abscissa the parabola ; and so on in more complex figures,
which have any regularity, they can easily be determined
and known in every part from a few data : whereas it
might cost a man half his life to remember the form of
the first pebble he picked up in the streets, so as to re-
produce it at pleasure. Is, then, fhat form always agree-
able in single objects which is regular ? Is a square
nose agreeable ? or a head tapering off to a cone beau-
tiful ? No ; they are both monstrous. Is a square tree
upon espaliers more beautiful than a tree left to itself?
No ; it gives you an idea of restraint and confinement.
Does, then, a square house give you an idea of restraint
and confinement ? No, by no means ; you do not ex-
pect wildness in walls, and luxuriancy in buttresses : no
man is so fond of the picturesque that he raises part of
his drawing-room floor into hillocks, and depresses the
rest into glens and valleys : the approach from the door
to the table is not by any spiral and circuitous progress,
but the servant enters, and, w 7 ith the most unpicturesque
straightness, deposits what he has to leave. The regu-
larity of the figures, instead of the notion of restraint,
conveys the notion of comfort in the use, and of skill
and economy in the building. Walls have no natural

ON THE BEAUTIFUL. 175

disposition to assume one form more than another : trees
have.

Those forms are beautiful which are associated with
agreeable ends ; as strength, and health, and activity.
Strength, however, is a quality in animals, which may
be so easily turned to our destruction, that it requires to
be joined with the notion of utility, to legitimate the
usage of the word beautiful. The form of a rhinoceros
indicates that he is as strong as a village, yet no one
calls him beautiful. The form of an ox, or a cart-horse,
which indicates strength supereminently above other
animals of the same sort, is called beautiful — not by him
whose mind has not been impressed with a strong asso-
ciation between the form and the useful quality ; but as
breeders, and men curious in cattle, do not scruple to
apply to forms indicative of useful qualities the appella-
tion of beauty. However, I will discuss this more at
length, when I come to consider the question syntheti-
cally, and to show (what I believe to be true), that any
surprising adaptation of means to ends, immediately
excites the feeling of the beautiful, except where asso-
ciation intervenes to prevent it.

Forms which excite the notion of swiftness, are com-
monly beautiful ; or of a mixture of swiftness and
strength. The greater part of our associations respect-
ing beautiful forms, are taken from our own species.
We find magnitude and strength of form, united with
good qualities, which excite respect rather than affection ;
and with bad ones, which excite fear rather than pity :
with courage, perseverance, and intrepidity ; with vio-
lence, harshness, and oppression. Experience, on the
contrary, teaches us that delicacy of form is united with
gentleness and benevolence, which are the objects of
affection ; and wtth indecision, timidity, and fluctuation,
which are the objects of compassion. This, if I mistake
not, is the origin of that association in favor of delicacy
of form, and of the application to it of the term beau-
tiful: and of course, when the association is once estab-
lished, it is extended to those inanimate objects from
whence it would never have originated ; for I can not
conceive that the delicacy of a flower, by which is prin-

176 LECTURE XIII.

cipally meant its fragility, the facility with which any
exterior violence can destroy it, can of itself be any
cause of our deeming it beautiful, — unless our experience
of moral beings had previously taught us to associate
with the emblem of outward weakness, a thousand beau-
tiful feelings of pity, gratitude, kindness, and other the
best and fairest emotions of the mind.

LECTURE XIV.

ON THE BEAUTIFUL.— PART IL

" All the objects which are exhibited to our view by
Nature," says Sir Joshua Reynolds, " upon close exam-
ination will be found to have their blemishes and defects.
The most beautiful forms have something about them like
weakness, minuteness, or imperfection. But it is not every
eye that perceives these blemishes ; it must be an eye
long used to the contemplation and comparison of these
forms, and which, by a long habit of observing what any
set of objects of the same kind have in common, has ac-
quired the power of discerning what each wants in par-
ticular. This long, laborious comparison, should be the
first study of the painter who aims at the greatest style.
By this means he acquires a just idea of beautiful forms ;
he corrects Nature by herself, her imperfect state by her
more perfect. His eye being enabled to distinguish the
accidental deficiencies, excrescences, and deformities of
things, from their general figures, he makes out an ab-
stract idea of their forms, more perfect than any one
original : and, what may seem a paradox, he learns to
design naturally, by drawing his figures unlike to any
one object. This idea of the perfect state of nature,
which the artist calls the ideal beauty, is the great lead-
ing principle by which works of genius are conducted.
By this, Phidias acquired his fame ; he wrought upon a
sober principle what has so much excited the enthusiasm
of the world ; and by this method you who have cour-
rage to tread the same path, may acquire equal reputa-
tion.

' This is the idea which has acquired, and which
seems to have a right to, the epithet of divine ; as it may

178 LECTURE XIV.

be said to preside, like a supreme judge, over all the
productions of nature, appearing to be possessed of the
will and intention of the Creator, as far as they regard
the external form of living beings. When a man once
possesses this idea in its perfection, there is no danger
but that he will be sufficiently warmed by it himself, and
be able to warm and ravish every one else.

" Thus it is from a reiterated experience, and a close
comparison of the objects of nature, that an artist be-
comes possessed of the idea of that central form, if I may
so express it, from which every deviation is deformity.
But the investigation of this form, I grant, is painful ;
and I know but of one method of shortening the road ; —
that is, by a careful study of the works of the ancient
sculptors, who, being indefatigable in the school of nature,
have left models of that perfect form behind them, which
an artist would prefer as supremely beautiful, who had
spent his whole life in that single contemplation. But
if industry carried them thus far, may not you also hope
for the same reward from the same labor ? We have the
same school opened to us that was opened to them, for
Nature denies her instructions to none who desire to
become her pupils."

Every body must perceive that in this opinion of Sir
Joshua's there is a great deal of ingenuity as well as
justice : and, in order to ascertain the effect of custom
on the beauty of forms, I begin with stating, that where
the customary figure of animals is very materially de-
viated from, there we have always a sense of deformity
and disgust. I carefully avoid mentioning those parts
of animals where a deviation from the customary figure
would imply disease and weakness, and prevent the
animal from acting as Nature intended it should. A
crooked spine gives us the very opposite notions to the
beautiful, not merely because it is contrary to the cus-
tomary figure of the animal, but because experience has
taught us to associate it with the notions of disease and
imbecility of body. But, in order to show the effect of
custom upon the beautiful, take a chin, which is of no
use at all. A chin ending in a very sharp angle would be
perfect deformitv. A man whose chin terminated in a

ON THE BEAUTIFUL. 179

point, would be under the immediate necessity of retiring
to America ; he would be a perfect horror : and for no
other reason that I can possibly see, but that Nature has
shown no intention of making such a chin, — we have
never been accustomed to see such chins. Nature, we
are quite certain, did not intend that the chin should be
brought to a perfect angle, nor that it should be per-
fectly circular, and therefore either of these extremes
is a deformity. Now, something considerably removed
from the perfect circle and the perfect angle, is the chin
we have been most accustomed to see, and which, for
that reason, we most approve of. Within certain limits,
one chin is as common as another, and as handsome as
another: there are degrees of tendency to the circle and
the angle, which we can at once pronounce to be ugly ;
but there is a middle region of some extent, where all
approximations to these two figures are equally common
and equally handsome. The only objection to this doc-
trine of the central form, is, that it has been pushed too
far ; it has been urged that there is an exact middle
point between the two extremes, which is the perfection
of beauty, and to which nature is perpetually tending.
This attempt at such very precise and minute discovery
in the subject of beauty, appears to me to give a fanciful
air to the whole doctrine, and to do injustice to the real
truth it contains. In the construction of every form,
Nature takes a certain range : to ascertain the ordinary
limits of her range, is practical, rational, and useful ; to
aim at greater precision, and to speak as if you knew
the very prototype at which Nature was always aiming,
and from which she was always deviating on one side or
the other, is to cheat yourself with your own metaphors,
and to substitute illusion for plain fact. Within certain
limits, every tendency to the circle or the angle, are
equally removed from deformity, because they are
equally common, and they are (all other things being
equal)* equally beautiful. Of course I mean this only to
apply where the expression is equal, and where mere
historical association does not interfere to disturb the
justice of the conclusions. The Grecian face is not
common : I hardlv know what a Grecian face is, but I

180 LECTURE XIV.

am told by those who have studied these matters, that
there are some parts of it, — the length, 1 fancy, between
the nose and the lip, — which are extremely uncommon,
and very rarely to be met with in Europe. This is very
probable ; but it is mere association. If the elegant arts
had been transmitted to us from the Chinese instead of
the Greeks, that singular piece of deformity, a Chinese
nose, would very probably have been held in high es-
timation. Now what I have said about forms amounts
to this : — Forms are beautiful which are associated with
the notion of smoothness of touch, which are regular,
which give the notion of delicacy, or recall any of a
particular class of feelings of mind. What that par-
ticular class is, I shall attempt hereafter to specify.

So far I have attempted to show, that the contrary
to that, which is the customary form of any species, is
deformity. But is the customary form itself beautiful ?
does it create the opposite to disgust ? I am strongly
inclined to think it does not ; that the mere common-
ness of any form does not give the notion of beauty ; —
it prevents the notion of deformity, but does not give
the notion of beauty, for beauty itself is always un-
common.

Mr. Burke says, " If I am not mistaken, a great deal
of the prejudice in favor of proportion has arisen, not so
much from the observations of any certain measures
found in beautiful bodies, as from a wrong idea of the
relation which deformity bears to beauty, to which it
has been considered as the opposite : on this principle it
was concluded, that where the causes of deformity were
removed, beauty must naturally and necessarily be in-
troduced. This, I believe, is a mistake ; for deformity
is opposed, not to beauty, but to the complete common
form. If one of the legs of a man be found shorter than
the other, the man is deformed, because there is some-
thing wanting to complete the whole idea we form of a
man : and this has the same effect in natural faults, as
maiming and mutilation produce from accidents. So if
the back be humped, the man is deformed, because his
back has an unusual figure, and what carries with it the
idea of some misfortune : so if a man's neck be consider-:

ON THE BEAUTIFUL. 181

ably longer or shorter than usual, we say he is deformed
in that part, because men are not commonly made in
that manner. But surely every hour's experience may
convince us, that a man may have his legs of an equal
length, and resembling each other in all respects, and his
neck of a just size, and his back quite straight, without
having at the same time the least perceivable beauty.
Indeed, beauty is so far from belonging to the idea of
custom, that, in reality, what affects us in that manner,
is extremely rare and uncommon. The beautiful strikes
us as much by its novelty, as the deformed itself."*

Custom has precisely the same effect upon our ideas
of relative magnitude or proportion, as on our ideas of
figure. There is a certain breadth of the mouth, in pro-
portion to the breadth of the whole face, which is mon-
strous ; another opposite proportion equally monstrous.
There is a certain middle limit, within which all propor-
tions are equally removed from deformity. Mr. Burke
contends, and in my humble opinion with great success,
that proportion is never of itself the original cause of
beauty. It is the cause of beauty, as it is an indication
of strength and utility in buildings, of swiftness in ani-
mals, of any feeling morally beautiful ; and it is agree-
able, as it is customary in animals, or the proof of the
absence of deformity ; but no proportion of itself, and
without one of these reasons, ever pleases. No man
would contend Nature ever intended that 6 to 2, or 9 to
14, are perfection : that the moment a monkey could be
discovered and brought to light, the length of whose ear
was precisely the cube root of the length of his tail, that
he ought to be set up as a model of perfect conformation
to the whole simious tribe. Certain proportions are
beautiful, as they indicate skill, swiftness, convenience,
strength, or historical association ; and then philosophers
copy these proportions, and determine that they must be
originally and abstractedly beautiful, — applying that to
the sign, which is only true of the thing indicated by the
sign.

Custom has also the same effect upon magnitudes.
Tall and short mean only unusual. The excellence of

* Burke, p, 221.

182 LECTURE XIV.

stature would lie within those limits where one height
was equally common with another, were it not for the
idea of utility which intervenes and overcomes the slight
deviation from that which is most common. For in-
stance : I believe there are many more Englishmen
between 5 feet 6 and 5 feet 9, than there are between
5 feet 9 and 6 feet; but I believe Mr. Flaxman, in
making a statue of a beautiful young man, would rather
choose between the last proportion than the first, —
because, though the deviation from custom would be
greater, it would be compensated for by the superior
notions of strength and energy it would convey. But
every sculptor would undoubtedly take the commonest
proportion between the nose and the chin he could dis-
cover, because no superior pleasure would be gained by
deviating from that proportion. Mr. Burke has a notion
that things, to be beautiful, must be small, — that small-
ness is one cause of beauty. This, I confess, I can not
agree to. Little is a term of affection, but not a term
of beauty : where the stature is small, we are rather in-
clined to use some less powerful word than beautiful, as
pretty. There is a certain feeling of admiration, a faint
tinge of awe, connected with personal beauty, which, if
not diminished, is certainly not assisted, by smallness.
If smallness were one cause of beauty, we should have
remarked it in the great mass of amatory poetry, which
has been accumulating since the beginning of the world :
the lover would have told his mistress, from time imme-
morial, that she was so short that she could walk under
his arm ; that she weighed less by 20 or 30 pounds than
any other beauty in the neighborhood ; that he solemnly
believed her only to be five feet ; and he would have
diminished her down by elegant adulation, to think as
lowly of herself as possible. I think if the poetical gen-
tlemen who attend the Institution will recollect, they
will rather find, when they speak of stature at all, that
their adulation runs in an opposite channel ; and that,
though they may speak of grand stately figures, they
never allude to those remarkable only for weighing very
little, and being shorter and thinner than the average of
the human race.

ON THE BEAUTIFUL. 183

Having now gone through the various effects of mag-
nitude, proportion, and figure, on beauty, I think I have
said enough to explain the causes of the most remarkable
sort of beauty, the beauty of the human face. I shall
first take a very beautiful female face, entirely without
expression, — why do we call that face beautiful ? Take
twenty other faces, all devoid of expression ; why do we
denominate the one beautiful, the others not ? The
beautiful face is a most uncommon assemblage of com-
mon figures, common proportions, common magnitudes,
and common relations. Take all the other twenty, — the
first has features too large, that is, larger than is common;
the second violates proportion, that is, the customary
proportion between the length of the forehead and the
length of the chin is violated ; in a third, the figure of
the mouth is extraordinary, it is not the average custom-
ary figure of mouths. In the beautiful face alone, there
is not a single deviation from custom : the figure of
every feature is the average figure ; the magnitude the
average magnitude ; the proportion each part bears to
the other, the customary proportion. The only thing
which is not average, and not customary, is the extra-
ordinary assemblage of averages and common standards
in one single face : that whereas all human faces deviate
from the custom of Nature in some of their magnitudes,
figures, and proportions, she has assembled, in this single
face, one and all her models for every separate feature ;
and indulged the eye of man, unused to excellence, w T ith
the spectacle of that which is without spot, blemish, or
objection. Now mind what we have to add to this bare
assemblage of proportions, figures, and magnitudes : in
the first place we add to it smoothness, a great cause of
beauty ; then beautiful colors, which are also the signs
of health, youth, and delicacy of feeling. It shall also
express goodness, compassion, gentleness, an obliging
spirit, and a mild wisdom ; and, putting all these power-
ful causes together, I think I have said enough to explain
the effects which personal beauty produces on the des-
tinies of man.

" These, when the Spartan queen approach'd the tower,
In sprret own'd resistless beauty's power :

184 LECTURE XIV.

They cried, ' No wonder such celestial charms
' For nine long years had set the world in arms ;
What winning graces, what majestic mien !
She looks a goddess, and she moves a queen !' "

These are the causes which made all the old senators of
Troy exclaim, at the sight of Helen, that the Trojans
and the well-booted Greeks were by no means to blame
for having endured such griefs so long a time for such a
beautiful lady.

All the beauty of motion I should suspect to be the re-
sult of association. Motion is either quick or slow, di-
rect or circuitous, uniform or irregular. Sometimes
quick motion is not beautiful, from the association it ex-
cites of violent resistance to the touch ; in other in-
stances there is a want of variety, both in direct motion
and in slow motion, which is tiresome. All motion
which gives us the notion of ease, is beautiful ; of re-
straint, is painful. All movements in human creatures,
which express any feeling of mind which itself would be
called beautiful, is as beautiful as the thing it signifies.
The motion of a rivulet is beautiful from its variety ; of
a balloon, from its ease ; and the apparent absence of
effort of a sailing kite, from the same reason ; of a man
of war moving slowly, for the same reason.

Grace is either the beauty of motion, or the beauty of
posture. Graceful motion is motion without difficulty
or embarrassment ; or that which, from experience, we
know to be connected with ingenious modesty, a desire
to increase the happiness of others, or any beautiful
moral feeling. A person walks up a long room, ob-
served by a great number of individuals, and pays his re-
spects as a gentleman ought to do ; — why is he grace-
ful ? Because every movement of his body inspires you
with some pleasing feeling ; he has the free and unem-
barrassed use of his limbs ; his motions do not indicate
forward boldness, or irrational timidity ; — the outward
signs perpetually indicate agreeable qualities. The same
explanation applies to grace of posture and attitude :
that is a graceful attitude which indicates an absence of
restraint; and facility, which is the sign of agreeable
qualities of mind : apart from such indications, one atti-

ON THE BEAUTIFUL. 185

tude I should conceive to be quite as graceful as an-
other.

Mr. Burke has a long dissertation respecting the effect
of utility or fitness, as a cause of beauty : he determines
that it is not a cause of beauty, but I can not think this
decision conformable with matter of fact. I took occa-
sion to observe, in my last lecture, that the term beauty
implied comparison, and that it was a term of the super-
lative degree. Now certainly, mere utility, unaccom-
panied by surprise, does never excite the feeling of
beauty. There is nothing more useful than a plow, an
axe, or a hammer, but nobody calls them beautiful ; but
whenever utility is promoted by a surprising adaptation
of means to ends, there the feeling of the beautiful is al-
ways excited, unless counteracted by some accidental
association. " Why," says Mr. Burke, " upon this prin-
ciple of utility, the wedge-like snout of a sow, with its
tough cartilage at the end, the little sunk eyes, and the
whole make of the head, so well adapted to its offices of
digging and rooting, would be extremely beautiful. "
The great bag hanging to the bill of a pelican, a thing
highly useful to this animal, would be likewise as beau-
tiful in our eyes. In the first place, the pig is an animal
degraded by all sorts of dirty associations, and therefore
the instance is rather unfair: the bag of the pelican
raises up, also, some association of disease ; and this is
the notion both the one and the other excites in common
minds. But the anatomist, who has examined the struc-
ture of these parts carefully, and knows how they are
composed, how moved, how connected with the rest of
the body, is immediately struck with the feeling of the
beautiful, and does not hesitate to denominate both the
one and the other a beautiful provision of nature. In the
same manner all the instances Mr. Burke quotes are easy
to be answered, — porcupines and hedgehogs are well
provided by nature with means of defense; but any thing
associated with the idea of pain, wounds, and contention,
is disagreeable. For the same reason, all the inventions
of war, bombs, mines, cannon, — though they are useful,
and excite surprise if they have not been often seen, —
are never considered as beautiful, from the dreadful ideas

186 LECTURE XIV.

with which they are connected. But I think it would
be difficult to find any thing useful, done by a surprising
adaptation of means to end, which would not be called
beautiful. How beautiful is the adaptation of the con-
densible nature of steam, to overcome the greatest ob-
stacles in mechanics ! or that adaptation of the elastic
power of air, to produce a continued stream in the en-
gines employed for fires ! What is more useful than a
saucepan ? nothing. — but the adaptation of means to the
end excites no surprise. But what if a man were to in-
vent a new and better kind of snuffers, effecting his ob-
ject by a very striking method, — would that be beautiful ?
Probably not ; the end proposed is so trifling, that we
should rather feel a sort of contempt for the man who
had lavished his talent upon such an object ; though it
is very possible that the great ingenuity of the means
may sanctify an object otherwise unimportant. Argand's
lamp certainly deserves the appellation of a beautiful in-
vention. Go to the Duke of Bedford's piggery at Wo-
burn, and you will see a breed of pigs with legs so short,
that their stomachs trail upon the ground : a breed of
animals entombed in their own fat, overwhelmed with
prosperity, success, and farina. No animal could pos-
sibly be so disgusting if it were not useful ; but a breed-
er, who has accurately attended to the small quantity of
food it requires to swell this pig out to such extraordinary
dimensions, — the astonishing genius it displays for obes-
ity, — and the laudable propensity of the flesh to desert
the cheap regions of the body, and to agglomerate on
those parts which are worth ninepence a pound, — such
an observer of its utility does not scruple to call these
otherwise hideous quadrupeds, a beautiful race of pigs.
It is asked if perfection is the cause of beauty ? Before
the question is asked, it may be as well to determine
what is meant by perfection ? It often means the super-
lative of any thing. Perfect strength must mean the
greatest strength that that species, or any other species,
is accustomed to exhibit. Such strength would give no
notion of beauty, nor would perfect swiftness ; but rather
of the sublime : less perfect swiftness would be much
naore likely to inspire us with the notion of the beautiful.

ON THE BEAUTIFUL. 187

What notion of beauty could perfect justice impart, or
perfect courage ?

Perfect symmetry is the symmetry which is the most
beautiful, which I have before referred to custom ; I see
no reason whatever for considering perfection as a cause
of beauty.

Variety is another very strong cause of beauty ; and
this is the reason why we are so fond of natural objects,
and is the cause of the great bustle made about nature.
I have no doubt but that (all other things being equal)
a regular figure is more beautiful than an irregular fig-
ure, and that the principal reason why we are like the
strange figures presented to us in a forest, among the
boughs of the trees, or in a field by the irregular lay of
the ground, is the perpetual gratification of this passion
for variety which it affords. I went for the first time in
my life, some years ago, to stay at a very grand and
beautiful place in the country, where the grounds are
said to be laid out with consummate taste. For the first
three or four days I was perfectly enchanted ; it seemed
something so much better than nature, that I really be-
gan to wish the earth had been laid out according to the
latest principles of improvement, and that the whole face
of nature wore a little more the appearance of a park.
In three days' time I was tired to death ; a thistle, a net-
tle, a heap of dead bushes, any thing that wore the ap-
pearance of accident and want of intention, was quite a
relief. I used to escape from the made grounds, and
walk upon an adjacent goose-common, where the cart-
ruts, gravel-pits, bumps, irregularities, coarse ungentle-
manlike grass, and all the varieties produced by neglect,
were a thousand times more gratifying than the mo-
notony of beauties the result of design, and crowded into
narrow confines with a luxuriance and abundance utter-
ly unknown to nature.

When we speak of a beautiful landscape, we include
under that term a vast variety of sensations, — the beauty
of colors, of smells, and of sounds. It would be difficult
to look at milch cattle without thinking of the fragrance
of their milk, — or at hay in the haymaking season,
without enjoying in imagination its delightful smell.

188 LECTURE XIV.

"As one who long in populous city pent,
Where houses thick and sewers annoy the air,
Forth issuing on a summer's morn to breathe
Among the pleasant villages and farms
Adjoin'd, from each tiling met conceives delight ;
The smell of grain, or tedded grass, or kine,
Or dairy, each rural sight, each rural sound ;
If chance, with nymph-like step, fair virgin pass,
What pleasing seem'd, for her now pleases more ;
She most, and in her look sums all delight."

To the beauty of sounds, smells, and colors, is to be
added the beauty of variety, the notion of liberty, of
health, of innocence, the association of a childhood passed
in the country, of the happy days every man has spent
there, — all that Virgil has written, and Claude painted,
of the country, — the beautiful exertions of the highest
minds to make that fairer which God has made so fair,
— all these feelings go to make up the beauty of land-
scape, and give birth, by their united force, to that calm
pleasure which has been felt in every age by those who
have raised their minds above the struggles of passion,
and the emotions of sense. Then every man, in looking
at a landscape, paints to himself that scene of imaginary
felicity he likes best; a merchant looks at an asylum
from the toils of business ; a mother marks out a healthy
and sheltered spot for her children ; an improver plants ;
a poet feels ; an old man builds himself a retired cottage,
and gradually wears away his remaining days amid the
health and quiet of the fields. A landscape is every thing
to every body; it is one person's property as well as
another's ; it gratifies every man's desire, and fills up
every man's heart.

The beauties of architecture I should conceive to be
referable to the beauties of utility, of regularity, of del-
icacy, and of association. Why is the west window of
the cathedral at York beautiful? Let us endeavor to
follow what passes in the mind, in looking at this cele-
brated piece of architecture. It is, in the first place,
Gothic, and there is an association in favor of Gothic
architecture ; we have heard it is beautiful, and are pre-
pared to admire it. The stone-work is very light, and
therefore does not obstruct the passage of the sun's

OIV THE BEAUTIFUL. 189

rays ; nor does it give us the idea of labor uselessly
employed, but, on the contrary, the idea of delicacy,
which I have before stated to be a cause of beauty. It
is full of regular figures, neatly cut, which it is not easy
to make of stone. The whole is a regular figure, and
bears a just proportion to the size of the building. As
to the different orders of architecture, it is quite impossi-
ble to assent to the observations of those who would
contend that their proportions are absolutely beautiful, —
that nature has made these proportions originally a
cause of that feeling, independent of any utility to which
those proportions may be subservient, and of any asso-
ciation with which they may be connected. The
common sense of the business appears to me to be
this : — I see a pillar ; I conceive it, as erected, to support
something. I know the nature of stone, and its strength.
If the proportions are so managed that I conceive the
thing to be supported, will fall, it gives me the idea of
weakness and frailty, which is unpleasant : if they are
such as to indicate a much greater degree of strength
than is wanted, then I am equally disgusted. Between
these two extremes, all proportions are naturally of equal
beauty ; the rest is done by Pericles, Miltiades, the
battle of Thermopylae, and all the military and literary
glory of the Greeks. There is an excellent chapter in
Mr. Alison's book, upon the orders of architecture, in
which he, to my mind, sets this matter in the clearest
point of view, and shows that in this instance, as well as
in all others, the pleasure arising from the proportions of
the orders, is to be referred to the utility of those propor-
tions, or to the associations which they excite.

" The proportions of these orders," says Mr. Alison,
" it is to be remembered, are distinct subjects of beauty
from the ornaments with which they are embellished,
from the magnificence with which they are executed,
from the purposes of elegance they are intended to serve,
or the scenes of grandeur they are destined to adorn.
It is in such scenes, however, and with such additions,
that we are accustomed to observe them : and while we
feel the effect of all these accidental associations, we are
seldom willing to examine what are the causes of the

190 LECTURE XIV.

complex emotions we feel ; and readily attribute to the
nature of the architecture itself, the whole pleasure
which we enjoy.

" But, beside these, there are other associations we
have with these forms, that still more powerfully serve
to command our admiration, for they are the Grecian
orders : they derive their origin from those times, and
were the ornaments of those countries, which are most
hallowed in our imaginations ; and it is difficult for us to
see them, even in their modern copies, without feeling
them operate upon our minds as relics of those polished
nations where they first arose, and of that greater people
by whom they were afterward borrowed.

" While this species of architecture is attended with so
many and so pleasing associations, it is difficult, even for
a man of reflection, to distinguish between the different
sources of his emotion ; or, in the moments in which this
delight is felt, to ascertain what is the exact portion of
his pleasure which is to be attributed to these propor-
tions alone. And two different causes combine to lead
us to attribute to the style of architecture itself, the
beauty which arises from many other associations.

"In the first place, while it is under our eye, this
architecture itself is the great object of our regard, and
the central object of all these associations. It is the
material sign, in fact, of all the various affecting qualities
which are connected with it ; and it disposes us in this,
as in every other case, to attribute to the sign, the effect
which is produced by the qualities signified.

" When we reflect, upon the other hand, in our calmer
moments, upon the source of our emotion, another
motive arises to induce us to consider these proportions
as the sole, or the principal, cause of our pleasure ; for
these proportions are the only qualities of the object
which are perfectly or accurately ascertained. They
have received the assent of all ages since their discovery ;
they are the acknowledged objects of beauty ; and,
having thus got possession of one undoubted principle,
our natural love of system induces us to ascribe the
whole of the effect to this principle alone, and easily

OX THE BEAUTIFUL. 191

satisfies our minds, by saving us the trouble of a long and
tedious investigation.

" That this cause has had its full effect in this case,
will, I believe, appear very evident to those who attend
to the enthusiasm with which, in general, the writers on
architecture speak of the beauty of proportion, and
compare it with the common sentiments of men, upon
the subject of this beauty. Both these causes conspire
to mislead our judgment in this point, and to induce us
to attribute to one quality, in such objects, that beauty
which, in truth, results from many united qualities."*

In my next lecture I shall conclude this subject of
the beautiful, and sum up all that I have said upon it.
If any man feel himself inclined to think that I have
pushed this subject of the beautiful too far, and that its
importance does not merit such long discussion, I would
desire him to reflect upon the immense effect which it
produces on human life. What are half the crimes in
the world committed for ? What brings into action the
best virtues ? The desire of possessing. Of possessing
what ? — not mere money, but every species of the beau-
tiful which money can purchase. A man lies hid in a
little, dirty, smoky room for twenty years of his life, and
sums up as many columns of figures as would reach
round half the earth, if they were laid at length ; — he
gets rich ; what does he do with his riches ? He buys a
large, well-proportioned house : in the arrangement of
his furniture, he gratifies himself with all the beauty
which splendid colors, regular figures, and smooth
surfaces, can convey ; he has the beauties of variety and
association in his grounds ; the cup out of which he
drinks his tea is adorned with beautiful figures ; the
chair in which he sits is covered with smooth, shining
leather ; his table-cloth is of the most beautiful damask ;
mirrors reflect the lights from every quarter of the room ;
pictures of the best masters feed his eye with all the
beauties of imitation. A million of human creatures are
employed in this country in ministering to this feeling of
the beautiful. It is only a barbarous, ignorant people
that can ever be occupied by the necessaries of life alone,

* Alison, pp. 367-369.

192 LECTURE XIV.

If to eat, and to drink, and to be warm, were the only-
passions of our minds, we should all be what the lowest
of us all are at this day. The love of the beautiful calls
man to fresh exertions, and awakens him to a more
noble life ; and the glory of it is, that as painters imitate,
and poets sing, and statuaries carve, and architects rear
up the gorgeous trophies of their skill, — as every thing
becomes beautiful, and orderly, and magnificent, — the
activity of the mind rises to still greater, and to better
objects. The principles of justice are sought out; the
powers of the ruler, and the rights of the subject, are
fixed ; man advances to the enjoyment of rational
liberty, and to the establishment of those great moral
laws, which God has written in our hearts, to regulate
the destinies of the world.

LECTURE XV.

ON THE BEAUTIFUL— PART IIL

I wish, for the completion of the subject on which I
have been engaged, to consider what causes produce the
feeling of the beautiful in poetry. I must observe here,
as I observed before, that there is a lax and general
usage of the word beautiful, to which I am not now
referring. We might say of Milton's Paradise Lost,
that it is a beautiful poem, though its characteristic is
rather grandeur and sublimity, than beauty. It is a
general term, standing for every species of excellence ;
but I am speaking now of that which is properly beau-
tiful, as distinguished from what is sublime or excellent
in any other kind.

The first reason, then, why poetry is beautiful, is, be-
cause it describes natural objects, or moral feelings,
which are themselves beautiful. For an example, I will
read to you a beautiful sonnet of Dr. Leyden's upon the
Sabbath morning, which has never been printed : —

" With silent awe I hail the sacred morn,

"Which slowly wakes while all the fields are still ;
A soothing calm on every breeze is borne,

A graver murmur gurgles from the rill,

And Echo answers softer from the hill,
And softer sings the linnet from the thorn,

The skylark warbles in a tone less shrill.
Hail, light serene ! hail, sacred Sabbath morn !
The rooks float silent by, in airy drove ;

The sun, a placid yellow luster shows ;
The gales, that lately sigh'd along the grove,

Have hush'd their downy wings in dead repose ;
The hov'ring rack of clouds forget to move : —

So smiled the day when the first morn arose !"

194 LECTURE XV.

Now, there is not a single image introduced into this
very beautiful sonnet, which is not of itself beautiful ;
the soothing calm of the breeze, the noise of the rill, the
song of the linnet, the hovering rack of clouds, and the
airy drove of rooks floating by, are all objects that would
be beautiful in nature, and of course are so in poetry.
The notion that the w^hole appearance of the world is
more calm and composed on the Sabbath, and that its
sanctity is felt in the whole creation, is unusually beau-
tiful and poetical. There is a pleasure in imitation, —
this is exactly a picture of what a beautiful placid morn-
ing is, and we are delighted to see it so well repre-
sented.

There is also a certain degree of pleasure from the
measure of the poetry, — from the recurrence of certain
cadences at certain intervals ; — this makes the distinc-
tion between the language of prose and poetry. Now,
in which of these two passages are the sounds most
agreeably arranged : — " The master saw the madness
rising, took notice of his glowing cheeks and his ardent
eyes, and, while he defied heaven and earth, changed his
own hand, and checked the pride of Alexander. He
chose a mournful song, in order to infuse into him soft
pity ; he sung of Darius, a very great and good man," —
and so on.

" The master saw the madness rise ;
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes ;
And, while he Heaven and Earth defied,
Changed his hand, and check'd his pride.

He chose a mournful muse

Soft pity to infuse :
He sung Darius great and good,

By too severe a fate,
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,
Fallen from his high estate,

And welt'ring in his blood ;
Deserted, at his utmost need,
By those his former bounty fed :
On the bare earth exposed he lies,
With not a friend to close his eyes.
With downcast looks the joyless victor sate,

Revolving in his alter'd soul

The various turns of Chance below ;

And, now and then, a sigh he stole ;
And tears began to flow."

ON THE BEAUTIFUL. 195

Now, the ideas are precisely the same in the two ar-
rangements of sounds ; but I think no one can doubt of
the superior pleasure of that order of sounds, in which
there appears to be arrangement and design.

Part of the pleasure proceeds also from the rhymes.
Children will go on for ten minutes together, repeating
a rhyme, merely delighted with the sameness of the
sound : so will mad people. I have seen laborers and
common people in the country, quite delighted with the
accidental discovery of a rhyme ; it has appeared to have
very much the same effect upon them as wit. I mention
these things very cursorily, because they are connected
with my subject of the beautiful, though they are facts
of great curiosity, and which may lead to very interest-
ing speculations, which I have no doubt they will do, in
the very able hands in which they are at present placed
by the managers of this Institution.

To these causes may be added a strong admiration of
the skill of the poet, whether exemplified in his selection
of words, or his choice of the most striking objects and
incidents in description. These, I apprehend to be the
causes which excite the feeling of the beautiful in poetry,
where the subject itself is beautiful. But what is the
reason that poetry is called beautiful, where the subject
is quite the reverse ? There might be a very beautiful
description of the flat, dreary fens of Holland, which are
themselves as far from being beautiful as any natural
scenery can be. Now, here is a passage out of Thom-
son, in which there is not a single image naturally beau-
tiful, and yet the whole passage certainly must be so
called : —

" When o'er this world, by equinoctial rains
Flooded immense, looks out the joyless sun,
And draws the copious stream ; from swampy fens,
Where putrefaction into life ferments,
And breathes destructive myriads ; or from woods,
Impenetrable shades, recesses foul,
In vapors rank and blue corruption wrapt,
Whose gloomy horrors yet no desperate foot,
Has ever dared to pierce — then, wasteful, forth
Walks the dire power of pestilent disease.
A thousand hideous fiends her course attend,
Sick nature blasting 1 , and to heartless woe,

196 LECTURE XV.

And feeble desolation, casting down
The towering hopes and all the pride of man.
Such as, of late, at Cartagena quench'd
The British fire. You, gallant Vernon, saw
The miserable scene ; you, pitying, saw
To infant weakness sunk the warrior's arm ;
Saw the deep racking pang, the ghastly form.
The lip pale quivering, and the beamless eye
No more with ardor bright ; you heard the groans
Of agoni ing ships, from shore to shore ;
Heard, nightly plung'd amid the sullen waves,
The frequent corse — while on each other fix'd,
In sad presage, the blank assistants seem'd
Silent, to ask, whom fate would next demand."*

The question is, why is such an extraordinary assem-
blage of unbeautiful images beautiful ? In the first
place, the mention or description of putrefaction, stag-
nation of air, and consequent plague, is of course not so
disgusting or horrible as the reality : the obstacles to
the feeling of the beautiful are immensely overcome, in
comparison to that degree of force which they would
possess if these things were seen and felt instead of
read. Then there is a certain pleasure of security in
reading the description of danger, or of comfort in
reading the description of disgust. I think we should
all be conscious of the feeling of security, in reading
Thomson's celebrated description of a snow-storm, and
of the father perishing while his children are looking
out for him and demanding their sire. Add to all this,
the same causes of the beautiful which exist in beautiful
subjects, — the meter, the cadence, choice of language,
and admiration of skill, — and their united force will ex-
plain the reason why poetry is beautiful, when the sub-
ject, in nature, would be much otherwise ; though, I
suppose (all other things being equal), the more beauti-
ful the subject, the more beautiful the poem.

This also is to be said, that some passions, though
painful when very strong, are agreeable when weaker.
It would be horrible to be staying at a house on a snowy
night, where there was every reason to believe that the
husband would perish on his road home over a bleak
common ; and nothing could be more dreadful than to

* Summer, ver. 1026-1051.

ON THE BEAUTIFUL. 197

see the agony of the mother and the children. But
poetical snow is so much less dangerous than real snow,
and poetical wives and children always excite our com-
passion so much less than wives and children devoid of
all rhyme and meter, and composed of prosaic flesh and
blood, that the degree of compassion excited is rather
pleasing than painful.

The beautiful in painting seems to be quite referable
to the same causes, — the pleasures of imitation, the
reflex pleasure of natural beauty, the pleasure of skill ;
and where the subject itself is not beautiful, there, re-
flected horror is less intense than real or original horror,
and a certain pleasure is enjoyed from the consciousness
that we are exempt from the evil we behold.

Throughout the whole of my lectures on the beauti-
ful, in my explanation of the beauty of exterior objects,
I have thought it sufficient to trace their connection
with feelings of the mind, which have received that ap-
pellation. It therefore becomes necessary I should state
what those feelings are. To class feelings with the same
precision with which it is possible to arrange earths, and
stone, and minerals, is a degree of order in these mat-
ters, which the most ardent metaphysician, unassisted by
lunacy, will of course never attempt to attain. The
similarity of feelings is not a truth which it is possible
to prove ; it must be left to every man's inward reflec-
tion to determine, and to his candor to confess ; and,
after all, opinions upon such subjects must always fall
far short of that clearness of conviction, which is easily
obtained upon physical subjects.

The emotions of the mind may be divided into pain-
ful and pleasing, and the pleasing into calm emotions and
tumultuous emotions ; and the beautiful, I believe, com-
prehends almost every calm emotion of pleasure. I am
using old and well-established phrases, when I speak of
calm and tumultuous emotions, and (which is rather a
bold thing to say in the language adopted for the phe-
nomena of mind) I really believe they have some mean-
ing. The names have evidently been derived from the
outward bodily signs of the two kinds of emotion ; and no
one can doubt, but that what passes in the mind on such

198 LECTURE XV.

occasions, is just as different as what appears in the face
and actions, which are the indications of the mind. The
joy of a washerwoman who has just got the £20,000
prize in the lottery, and the joy of a sensible, worthy
man, who has just succeeded in rescuing a family from
distress, are both feelings of pleasure ; but while the one
is dancing in frantic rapture round her tubs, the signs
by which the other indicates his satisfaction are char-
acteristic of nothing but tranquillity and peace.

If, then, the beautiful in feeling includes every calm
emotion of pleasure, it must of course comprehend con-
tent, — health leading to serenity of body and mind ;
not when it breaks out into violence of action (the ab-
sence of restraint). It must include innocence, affection,
and even esteem, as well as benevolence : it also in-
cludes ingenuity mingled with utility, or the surprising
adaptation of means to useful ends ; and a long catalogue
of feelings, which are pleasing as well as calm. These
seem to be the characteristics which have governed men
in their usage of this term. No feeling which excites
pain can be beautiful. There is nothing beautiful in
envy, hatred, or malice, in cruelty and oppression : but
when we see a man bearing testimony to the merit of
his rival, that is beautiful ; when real injuries are rapidly
forgiven, that is beautiful. When any human being,
who has power and influence to defend his oppressions,
is as just and considerate to the feelings of others, as if
he were poor and defenseless, that is eminently beautiful,
and gives to every human being who beholds it, the
purest emotion of joy. I have said a great deal about
prospect and landscape ; I will mention an action or two,
which appear to me to convey as distinct a feeling of
the beautiful, as any landscape whatever. A London
merchant, who, I believe, is still alive, while he was
staying in the country with a friend, happened to men-
tion that he intended, the next year, to buy a ticket in
the lottery ; his friend desired he would buy one for him
at the same time, which of course was very willingly
agreed to. The conversation dropped, the ticket never
arrived, and the whole affair was entirely forgotten,
when the country gentleman received information that

ON THE BEAUTIFUL. 199

the ticket purchased for him by his friend, had come up
a prize of £20,000. Upon his arrival in London, he
inquired of his friend where he had put the ticket, and
why he had not informed him that it was purchased.
" I bought them both the same day, mine and your
ticket, and I flung them both into a drawer of my
bureau, and I never thought of them afterward." " But
how do you distinguish one ticket from the other ? and
why am I the holder of the fortunate ticket, more than
you ?" " Why, at the time I put them into the drawer,
I put a little mark in ink upon the ticket which I re-
solved should be yours ; and upon re-opening the drawer,
I found that the one so marked was the fortunate ticket."
Now this action appears to me perfectly beautiful ; it is
le beau ideal in morals, and gives that calm, yet deep
emotion of pleasure, which every one so easily receives
from the beauty of the exterior world.

There is a very pretty story which I shall read to you,
and which, to my mind, is a complete instance of the
beautiful in morals.

" At the siege of Namur by the Allies, there were in
the ranks of the company commanded by Captain Pin-
sent, in Colonel Frederick Hamilton's regiment, one
Unnion, a corporal, and one Valentine, a private sentinel.
There happened between these two men a dispute about
a matter of love, which, upon some aggravations, grew
to an irreconcilable hatred. Unnion, being the officer
of Valentine, took all opportunities even to strike his
rival, and profess his spite and revenge which moved
him to it ; the sentinel bore it without resistance, but
frequently said he would die to be revenged of that
tyrant. They had spent whole months thus, one injuring,
the other complaining ; when, in the midst of this rage
toward each other, they were commanded upon the
attack of the castle, where the corporal received a shot
in the thigh and 'fell. The French pressing on, and he
expecting to be trampled to death, called out to his
enemy, ' Ah, Valentine, can you leave me here ?' Valen-
tine immediately ran back, and, in the midst of a thick
fire of the French, took the corporal upon his back, and
brought him through all that danger as far as the Abbey

200 LECTURE XV.

of Salsine, where a cannon-ball took off his head : his
body fell under his enemy whom he was carrying off
Unnion immediately forgot his wound, rose up, tearing
his hair, and then threw himself upon the bleeding car-
cass, crying, ' Ah, Valentine ! was it for me, who have
so barbarously used thee, that thou hast died ! I will
not live after thee/ He was not by any means to be
forced from the body, but was removed with it bleeding
in his arms, and attended with tears by all their com-
rades who knew their enmity. When he was brought
to a tent, his wounds were dressed by force ; but the
next day, still calling upon Valentine, and lamenting his
cruelties to him, he died in the pangs of remorse and
despair.

" It may be a question among men of noble sentiment,
whether of these unfortunate persons had the greater
soul — he that was so generous as to venture his life for
his enemy, or he who could not survive the man who
died in laying upon him such an obligation ?"*

These are the beautiful feelings which lie hidden in
every man's heart, which alone make life worth having,
and prevent us from looking upon the world as a den
of wild beasts, thirsting for each other's blood.

There are some feelings that are always beautiful,
such as content and benevolence ; there are others that
appear to be beautiful, exactly according to the degree
in which they are felt, or to the other feelings with
which they are mingled. We compassionate a man who
has broken both his legs, but the feeling is accompanied
with too much pain, and is far too tumultuous, to be
called beautiful.

I should compassionate two young people who were
just married, and who, after their marriage, had expe-
rienced a loss of fortune that reduced them to embar-
rassments ; but this feeling of compassion, being much
less violent and tumultuous, approaches much nearer to
the beautiful. All description in poetry, or imitation in
painting, of any degree of compassion, would be so much
less powerful than the real observation of it in nature,
that it might convey the feeling of the beautiful. The

* Tatler, No. V. p. 18.

ON THE BEAUTIFUL. 201

real compassion we should have felt for Lady Randolph
deploring the loss of her son, if there had been a real
Lady Randolph, would have been a feeling much too
violent for the beautiful ; but, lowered and diminished
by the imperfect deception of imitation, or the refrig-
erating medium of description, it is brought to the stan-
dard which renders it compatible with that feeling. It
appears also, that those feelings which are the reverse
of beautiful may, in poetry and in painting, be rendered
compatible with it, by being softened and lowered from
that intense effect they produce in real nature, — by being
joined with harmonious sounds, conveyed in metrical
language, — by exciting admiration of skill, and gratifying
that pleasure which results from accurate imitation.

I consider mere imitation, rather as an auxiliary to
the feeling of the beautiful, than as sufficient to produce
it of itself. Mere imitation is agreeable, but I question
if it ever excites, alone, the feeling of the beautiful.
Could the most accurate drawing of a rat, or a weasel,
ever be beautiful ? — or, if it be contended that these are
animals which excite disgusting associations, could the
accurate drawing of a block of Portland stone, or of
mahogany, ever be beautiful? If mere imitation can
excite the feeling of beauty, these subjects, well imitated,
ought to come up to that character, which I hardly think
they ever could.

Thus, then, I have, with some pains to myself (and I
am afraid with much more to my audience), gone through
this subject of the beautiful ; a subject certainly of great
difficulty, and on which probable opinion must be ex-
pected, rather than certain conviction. To silence
opposition on such a subject, is of course impossible :
every man, in discussing it, must fling himself upon the
candor of his audience, and, instead of defying their
objections, request them to assist him in overcoming
them.

One method of trying the justice of what I have said
respecting the beautiful, will be, to see what is meant by
the opposite expression of ugliness. An ugly face is a
face which is not smooth, nor of a clear, transparent
color ; which expresses unpleasant passions, and where

i*

202 LECTURE XV.

the magnitudes, proportions, and figures, are very un-
customary. An ugly landscape is one devoid of variety,
of beautiful color ; and which excites feelings of dreari-
ness, coldness, and disease, rather than of warmth, health,
and enjoyment. An ugly animal is one, in the con-
formation of which, the custom of nature is violated, or
which excites the associations of sloth, gluttony, inutility,
and malice, rather than the opposite of all these qualities.
If pigs did not make such excellent hams, they would be
the most detestable of all animals on the face of the
earth ; and, accordingly, all nations that do not eat them,
hate them : they are only restored to favor upon condi-
tion of being dressed for dinner.

Ugly buildings, are buildings in which the figures are
not regular, nor the divisions convenient, nor the propor-
tions such as are associated with durability, or elegance,
or any pleasant impression. In ugly music, if I may use
the expression, the sound is not in itself pleasing, and it
conveys no pleasing association. In short, we shall al-
ways find, that in using this word, which is the exact
contrary to beauty, we shall always be influenced by the
absence of those causes, from which I, and many others
before me, have stated the feeling of the beautiful to
proceed. The sum, then, of what I have said on these
subjects is, that there is a mere beauty of matter, — or
rather I should say a feeling of the mind, occasioned by
certain qualities of matter, to which we have given the
name of the beautiful ; and other feelings of the mind,
not occasioned by the intervention of any thing mate-
rial, which are found to resemble the first class, and
have received the same name. How it comes about
that large masses of green or blue light should produce
any effects similar to those which are produced by be-
nevolence, — that there should be such an analogy between
content and smoothness, between any material and any
moral beauty — I can not take upon me to determine ; but
that consent among mankind so to consider them,
evinced by the language of many countries, is an evi-
dence that there is some real foundation in nature for
the resemblance. The emotion produced by both, is
calm and gentle : both are pleasing : both lose their char-

ON THE BEAUTIFUL.

acter of the beautiful, the moment that they hurry the
mind into any tumultuous sensation, or afflict it with any
degree of pain. What was the intention of Providence,
in creating this affinity between our minds and the planet
on which we dwell, it would be rash, perhaps, to conjec-
ture. The effects of it, however, I can not help thinking,
are often very perceptible. The mind, composed by the
beauty of natural objects, is brought into that state, in
which the beautiful in morals spontaneously rises up to
its notice, and, amid the fragrance and verdure of the
earth, is still more refreshed by the feeling of the mild
and amiable virtues. In the stillness of an evening in
the summer, when every sense is gratified by the beau-
ties of the creation, we have all felt the kindred beauties
of the mind ; we have all felt disposed to forgiveness on
such moments, to pity, to kindness, to be gracious and
merciful to every created being ; we have felt ourselves
drawn toward virtue by some invisible power, and be-
trayed into the gentlest and happiest tenor of mind. If
the very form and color of things have a tendency to
guide the mind of man to rectitude of thought, and pro-
priety of action, it is a new proof of the goodness of
Providence, and gives fresh dignity to that class of feel-
ings which have hitherto been considered to exist for
pleasure alone.

" For as old Memnon's image, long renown' d
By fabling Nilus, to the quivering touch
Of Titan's ray, with each repulsive string
Consenting, sounded through the warbling air
Unbidden strains ; even so did Nature's hand
To certain species of external things,
Attune the finer organs of the mind :
So the glad impulse of congenial powers,
Or of sweet sounds, or fair-proportion'd form,
The grace of motion, or the bloom of light,
Thrills through Imagination's tender frame,
From nerve to nerve : all naked and alive
They catch the spreading rays ; till now the soul
At length discloses every tuneful spring,
To that harmonious movement from without
Responsive. Then the inexpressive strain
Diffuses its enchantment : Fancy dreams
Of sacred fountains and Elysian groves,
And vales of bliss : the intellectual power
Bends from his awful throne a wondering ear

204 LECTURE XV.

And smiles : the passions, gently sooth' d away,
Sinks to divine repose, and love and joy
Alone are -waking ; love and joy, serene
As airs that fan the summer."*

There is another class of objects — the picturesque —
which have given rise to various controversies between
some very ingenious gentlemen ; and which have, from
the elegance of the subject, and the very pleasing man-
ner in which it has been discussed, attracted a consider-
able share of attention.

Mr. Gilpin defines picturesque objects to be those
which please from some quality capable of being illus-
trated in painting, or such objects as are proper for
painting. Mr. Price attempts to show that the pictur-
esque has a character no less separate and distinct, than
either the sublime, or the beautiful ; and quite as much
independent of the art of painting. The characteristics
of the beautiful, are smoothness and gradual variation ;
those of the picturesque, directly the reverse, — rough-
ness, and sudden variation. A temple of Grecian archi-
tecture in its smooth state, is beautiful ; in its ruin, is
picturesque. Symmetry, which, in works of art, accords
with the beautiful, is in the same degree adverse to the
picturesque. Many old buildings, such as hovels, cot-
tages, mills, ragged insides of old barns and stables, when-
ever they have any peculiar effect of light, form, tint, or
shadow, are eminently picturesque ; though they have
not a pretension to be called either grand or beautiful.
Smooth water is beautiful, rough water picturesque.
The smooth young ash, the fresh tender beech, are beau-
tiful; the rugged old oak, and knotty whych-elm, pic-
turesque. In animals, the same distinction prevails. The
ass is more picturesque than the horse. Of horses, the
wild forester, with his rough coat, his mane, and tail,
ragged and uneven, or the worn-out cart-horse, with his
staring bones, are the most picturesque. The pictur-
esque abhors sleekness, plumpness, smoothness, and con-
vexity, in animals. Among our own species, beggars,
gipsys, and all such rough, tattered figures as are mere-
ly picturesque, bear a close analogy, in all the qualities
* Akenside's Pleasures of Imagination book 1.

ON THE BEAUTIFUL. 205

that make them so, to old hovels and mills, to the wild
forest horse, and other objects of the same kind. " If
we ascend/' adds Mr. Price, '• to the highest order of
created beings, as painted by the grandest of our poets,
they, in their state of glory and happiness, raise no ideas
but those of beauty and sublimity. The picturesque
(as in earthly objects) only shows itself when they are
in a state of ruin ; when shadows have obscured their
original brightness, and that uniform, though angelic, ex-
pression of pure love and joy, has been destroyed by a
variety of warring passions.

1 Darken'd so, yet shone
Above them all the Archangel ; but his face
Deep scars of thunder had entrench'd, and care
Sat on his faded cheek, and under brows
Of dauntless courage and considerate pride
Waiting revenge ; cruel his eye, but cast
Signs of remorse and passion.' "*

Mr. Price then goes on to show, that these two char-
acters of the picturesque and beautiful, are perfectly dis-
tinguishable in painting and in grounds. He traces it
in color ; and maintains that there is a picturesque in
taste and in smell. One principal effect of smoothness,
according to Mr. Burke and Mr. Price, the essential
characteristic of beauty, is, that it gives an appear-
ance of quiet and repose to all objects ; roughness, on
the contrary, a spirit and animation. Hence, where
there is a want of smoothness, there will be a want of
repose ; and where there is no roughness, there is a
want of spirit and stimulus. Picturesqueness, therefore,
appears in this theory to hold a station between beauty
and sublimity ; and, on that account, to be more fre-
quently and happily blended with them both, than they
are with each other ; it is, however, distinct from either.
It is not the beautiful, because it is founded on qualities
totally opposite to the beautiful — on roughness, and
sudden variation ; on that of age, and even of decay.
It is not the sublime, because it has nothing to do with
greatness of dimensions, and is found in the smallest
as well as the largest objects ; it inspires no feelings of
* Price on the Picturesque, p. 71.

206 LECTURE XIV.

awe and terror, like the sublime : the picturesque loves
boundaries, — infinity is one of the efficient causes of
the sublime. Lastly : uniformity, which is so great an
enemy to the picturesque, is not only compatible with
the sublime, but often the cause of it. Concerning the
elegance with which this dissertation on the picturesque
is expressed, and the ingenuity with which it is con-
ceived, there can, I should think, be but one opinion ;
it is not often, in such difficult investigations, that per-
spicuity, acuteness, good taste, and admirable writing,
are so eminently united. But, however, it is not quite
so easy to determine upon the real truth and justice
which the system contains. One thing seems quite
clear, that Mr. Price has chosen a very bad word for the
class of feelings which he conceives himself to have dis-
covered ; nor does he, in my humble opinion, at all
justify it, by what he says of its etymology. The word
will naturally be taken by every body for that which is
fit to make a good picture ; and so, according to the
genius of our language, it ought to be taken ; and one
of the most considerable difficulties Mr. Price's theory
will have to encounter, will be that of affixing any other
meaning to this expression of the picturesque. With
respect to the theory itself, the first question seems to
be, Is there any class of objects, to be distinguished by
any assignable circumstances, which inspire the mind
with a common feeling ? This, Mr. Price has, I think,
proved clearly enough. All the objects he has men-
tioned — the old horse, the jackass, the mill, the beggar
— do arrest the attention, and arrest it in a similar
manner ; and not merely with a reference to the art of
painting, for a person wholly unacquainted with pictures,
but who had leisure to contemplate the appearances of
natural objects, would probably notice these, which I
have mentioned, and refer them to one class, from the
similar manner in which they affected his mind. They
all rouse the mind agreeably, and provoke instant atten-
tion. After the first sensation is over, the different
objects lead the mind into a different set of feelings,
according to the particular nature of each object ; but
there is I think one common sensation they excite at

ON THE BEAUTIFUL. 207

first, which establishes a common nature, and justifies
the classification of Mr. Price. These are very difficult
subjects to speculate upon, and not quite as important
as they are difficult ; but I should rather think it might
be the very faintest feeling of grandeur or sublimity
which Mr. Price distinguishes under the appellation of
picturesque. Sudden variation, for instance, in a great
scale, is most commonly either grand or sublime ; it sets
all the faculties up in arms, and communicates that feel-
ing of faint danger, which is so necessary an ingredient
to the sublime. To come upon a sudden on a yawning
abyss, unless the danger be imminent, is sublime. The
sudden variation from the hill country of Gloucester-
shire to the Vale of Severn, as observed from Birdlip,
or Frowcester Hill, is strikingly sublime. You travel
for twenty or five-and-twenty miles over one of the most
unfortunate, desolate countries under heaven, divided
by stone walls, and abandoned to screaming kites and
larcenous crows; after traveling really twenty, and to
appearance ninety miles, over this region of stone and
sorrow, life begins to be a burden, and you wish to perish.
At the very moment when you are taking this melan-
choly view of human affairs, and hating the postilion,
and blaming the horses, there bursts upon your view,
with all its towers, forests, and streams, the deep and
shaded Vale of Severn. Sterility and nakedness are
thrown in the background : as far as the eye can reach,
all is comfort, opulence, product, and beauty : now it is
an ancient city, or a fair castle rising out of the forests,
and now the beautiful Severn is noticed winding among
the cultivated fields, and the cheerful habitations of
men. The train of mournful impressions is quite
effaced, and you descend rapidly into a vale of plenty,
with a heart full of wonder and delight. Now the effect
produced by sudden variation on a great scale, impresses
itself, perhaps, on the mind, and is not forgotten on lesser
occasions ; and what Mr. Price calls the picturesque
may be the faintest state of this feeling, which requires
nothing but greater dimensions to exalt itself into the real
sublime. I only mention this as a very frivolous conjec-
ture, upon a very unimportant subject, which I bring for-
ward without reflection, and part with without difficulty.

LECTURE XVI.

ON THE SUBLIME.

I mean by the sublime, as I meant by the beautiful, a
feeling of mind ; though, of course, a very different feel-
ing. It is a feeling of pleasure, but of exalted tremulous
pleasure, bordering on the very confines of pain ; and
driving before it every calm thought, and every regu-
lated feeling. It is the feeling which men experience
when they behold marvelous scenes of nature ; or when
they see great actions performed. Such feelings as come
on the top of exceeding high mountains ; or the hour
before a battle ; or when a man of great power, and of
an unyielding spirit, is pleading before some august tri-
bunal against the accusations of his enemies. These are
the hours of sublimity, when all low and little passions
are swallowed up by an overwhelming feeling ; when
the mind towers and springs above its common limits,
breaks out into larger dimensions, and swells into a
nobler and grander nature. It is necessary here to
notice the opinions of Dr. Reid and Mr. Alison, upon
the subject of the sublime, which I think may be very
fairly expressed by this short quotation from the former
of these gentlemen : — " When we consider matter as an
inert, extended, divisible, and movable substance, there
seems to be nothing in these qualities which we can call
grand ; and when we ascribe grandeur to any portion
of matter, however modified, may it not borrow this
quality from something intellectual, of which it is the
effect, or sign, or instrument, or to which it bears some
analogy ; or, perhaps, because it produces in the mind
an emotion that has some resemblance to that admira-
tion, which truly grand objects raise ?

# # * # # # #

ON THE SUBLIME. 209

" Upon the whole, I humbly apprehend, that true
grandeur is such a degree of excellence as is fit to raise
an enthusiastic admiration ; that this grandeur is found
originally and properly in qualities of the mind ; that it
is discerned in objects of sense, only by reflection, as the
light we perceive in the moon and planets is, truly, the
light of the sun ; and that those who look for grandeur
in mere matter, seek the living among the dead.

" If this be a mistake, it ought at least to be granted,
that the grandeur which we perceive in qualities of
mind, ought to have a different name from that which
belongs properly to the objects of sense, as they are very
different in their nature, and produce very different
emotions in the mind of the spectator."*

Upon the justice of these observations every one must
determine for themselves. When I look upon a forest,
I confess I am quite unconscious of any qualities of
mind, which excite in me the feelings by which I am
then possessed ; nor can I, upon mature reflection, find
that any other feelings are excited in me but wonder
and terror : nor can I admit that the sublimity excited
by matter, or by qualities of mind, should have different
names, because I firmly believe that the two feelings do
very much resemble each other ; and if that be the case,
their similarity of name indicates their affinity, and in-
troduces something like classification into such a dark
and mysterious subject as the feelings of the mind. I
have said so much in my Lectures on the Beautiful,
against referring that feeling to moral qualities alone,
and the arguments would be so precisely the same for
this feeling of the sublime, that I forbear going over them
again. " The first cause of this feeling," says Mr. Burke,
" is obscurity. ' In thoughts from the visions of the
night, when deep sleep falleth upon men, fear came upon
me, and trembling ; which made all my bones to shake :
then, a spirit passed before my eyes; the hair of my flesh
stood up ! it stood still, but I could not discern the form
thereof : an image was before mine eyes ! there was
silence, and I heard a voice ! Shall mortal man be more

* Reid's Essays on the Powers of the Mind,

210 LECTURE XVI.

just than God ?' " Now, throughout the whole of this
description, as Mr. Burke very justly observes, there is
an obscurity which fills the mind with terror (such
terror, I mean, as is excited by description;) every thing
is half obscure ; it takes place in a dream. The appari-
tion is half seen, — it has no determinate form. There is
space and verge enough for every horror that the most
fruitful imagination can suggest ; there are no limits to
the conception of the dreadful : no man's fancy could
paint any thing positive, so terrific, as every man's
fancy, in this instance, is left to paint for itself.

Obscurity here seems to operate in the production of
the sublime, as it is a medium of terror ; for whatever
else be added to it, terror seems in one shape or another,
or in some degree or another, to be essential to the sub-
lime. The degree that each individual can bear of
terror, without destroying the feeling of the sublime,
must of course depend upon the force of every man's
blood, and the strength of his nerves. I have heard of
a clergyman so extremely fond of the sublime, that he
procured admission into the foremost parallels at the
siege of Valenciennes, in order to contemplate the firing
from the batteries of the town the more distinctly : such
a situation. I should have thought, would have been a
little too sublime for Longinus himself, and evinces
certainly a disregard for personal danger, with which
the generality of the world, in their enjoyment of this
high feeling, can not keep pace.

Mere terror, even in that moderated degree of which
I am speaking, does not produce the sublime by itself ;
for if an angry man flourishes a loaded pistol near me,
in all directions, and exhibits a very careless manage-
ment of that interesting machine, I have fear in a certain
degree, without a particle of sublimity. If a cow shows
some slight disposition to run at me as I am crossing a
field, I am frightened, but my mind experiences nothing
of the sublime. If I am attended by a bad apothecary
in an illness, I am excessively frightened, but he never
appears to me in the light of a sublime apothecary.
Fear, therefore, commonly enters into the feeling of the
sublime as an ingredient ; or rather, I should say, is an

ON THE SUBLIME. 211

ingredient of the cause of that feeling ; though it can not
excite it by itself. But some men tell you it is not fear
which is the ingredient, but awe ; but is not fear an
ingredient of awe? — for what is awe, but fear and
admiration mingled together ; both existing, perhaps, in
a less degree, than they are to be met with in the sub-
lime ? But if the feeling of awe be not of the family of
fear, I am quite ignorant both of its genealogy and nature.

A mixture of wonder and terror almost always excites
the feeling of the sublime. Extraordinary power gene-
rally excites the feeling of the sublime by these means, —
by mixing wonder with terror. A person who has
never seen any thing of the kind but a little boat, would
think a sloop of eighty tons a goodly and somewhat of a
grand object, if all her sails were set, and she were going
gallantly before the wind ; but a first-rate man-of-war
would sail over such a sloop, and send her to the bottom,
without any person on board the man-of-war perceiving
that they had encountered any obstacle. Such power
is wonderful and terrible, — therefore, sublime. Every
body possessed of power is an object either of awe or
sublimity, from a justice of peace up to the Emperor
Aurungzebe — an object quite as stupendous as the Alps.
He had thirty-five millions of revenue, in a country
where the products of the earth are, at least, six times as
cheap as in England : his empire extended over twenty-
five degrees of latitude, and as many of longitude : he
had put to death above twenty millions of people. 1
should like to know the man who could have looked at
Aurungzebe without feeling him to the end of his limbs,
and in every hair of his head ! Such emperors are more
sublime than cataracts. I think any man would have
shivered more at the sight of Aurungzebe, than at the
sight of the two rivers which meet at the Blue Moun-
tains, in America, and, bursting through the whole
breadth of the rocks, roll their victorious and united
waters to the Eastern Sea.

Homer represents the horses of Juno as leaping at one
bound across the horizon :

" For as a shepherd, from some point on high,
O'er the wide main extends his boundless eye, —

212 LECTURE XVI.

Through such a space of air, with thund'ring sound,
At one long leap, the immortal coursers bound !"

Power is here the cause of the sublime ; and Longinus
observes of this thought, that if the steeds of the deity
were to take a second leap, the world itself would want
room for it. I must beg leave to mention here, that
wonder is not always mingled with fear ; and that fear is
by no means the necessary consequence of wonder. I
may be living in Portuguese America, and find a diamond
as big as a hen's egg ; — here is wonder, but nothing like
fear. Count Borrilowski excites a sufficient degree of
wonder, but a feeling as distinct from fear as any feeling
can be.

Magnitude is a cause of the sublime, as it excites a
mixture of wonder and terror. The great horse, now
to be seen for a shilling, is not sublime, because it is so
exceedingly tame, and even stupid, that it does not excite
the smallest degree of danger. A bull of the size of this
animal would be an object of sublimity, because it would
excite feelings both of wonder and feav.

Magnitudes may be considered either as relative to
the species of the thing itself, or relative to all other
things. Any object of unusual magnitude for its spe-
cies, accompanied by danger, would have a strong ten-
dency to excite some feeling of the sublime. The largest
snake ever seen in this country, might have some chance
of exciting the feeling of sublimity, though a middling-
sized one certainly would not. We call this object large,
because it is large for its own species ; though, going
through all the chain of magnitudes, from a mountain
to a grain of dust, we could hardly call such a snake a
large object. Magnitude in height — as a very lofty
mountain — would excite the sublime, from mingling
wonder with terror. In looking down from a lofty place,
every one is aware of the terror mingled with the won-
der. In looking up to a lofty place, the terror is more
faint, but still it may be distinctly recognized. The word
we commonly use to express our feelings on such occa-
sions, is awe ; but such awe is most probably nothing
but a distant conception of the personal danger we

ON THE SUBLIME. 213

should experience if we were upon the height at which
we are looking, if we were to slip from it, and be pre-
cipitated to the bottom. Silence is sublime to those who
are unaccustomed to it, after a long residence in London.
The profound silence of the country is quite affecting
and impressive : —

" all the air a solemn stillness holds /"

The solitude of a Gothic cathedral, or that which
reigns throughout an extensive ruin — as at Tintern and
Fountain's Abbey, — are very sublime. That such scenes
of solitude and silence excite wonder in those little ac-
customed to them, there can be no doubt ; but that faint
tinge of danger is also discoverable in them which is so
common an ingredient of the sublime : they remind us,
however distantly, of our weak and unprotected state,
and bring with them a faint and obscure image of death
and danger.

" Tis as the general pulse
Of life stood still, and nature made a pause —
An awful pause ! prophetic of her end."

Infinity, perhaps, raises the idea of the sublime, by
mixing the wonderful with terror: at least, I think there
is a distinct impression of fear, produced by the notion
of infinity; and certainly there is one of wonder. Im-
mensity of any kind excites the notion of power, and the
distant sense of fear. Look at a little green grass-plat
before a house ; nothing can be more insignificant :
magnify it into a field ; you are not struck with it : let
it be a smooth, uniform, boundless plain, stretching on
every side further than the eye can reach, and it be-
comes a sublime object. How vast must be the power
that has arranged such a mass of matter ! where does it
lead to ? what ends it ? how dreadful it would be to
cross it in a storm ! how impossible to procure assist-
ance ! how remote from every human being ! — these are
the notions which pass rapidly through the mind, and
impress it in the awful manner of which we are all con-
scious on such occasions.

Wonder, in itself, is a pleasing passion ; fear is not ;

214 LECTURE XVI.

and as the sublime inclines more to one or the other, it
assumes different shades of character. Sometimes it
borders more upon delight, from the very faint tinge of
fear which is mingled with it ; at others, it approaches
much nearer to mere terror. There is in this descrip-
tion of the sublime, by Mr. Brydonne, as much delight
as is well compatible with it : —

" After contemplating these objects for some time, we
set off, and soon after arrived at the foot of the great
crater of the mountain. This is of an exact conical
figure, and rises equally on all sides. It is composed
solely of ashes and other burnt materials, discharged from
the mouth of the volcano, which is in its center. This
conical mountain is of a very great size ; its circumfer-
ence can not be less than ten miles. Here we took a
second rest, as the greatest part of our fatigue remained.
We found this mountain excessively steep ; and although
it had appeared black, yet it was likewise covered with
snow, but the surface (luckily for us) was spread over
with a pretty thick layer of ashes, thrown out from the
crater. Had it not been for this, we never should have
been able to get to the top, as the snow was every-
where frozen hard and solid, from the piercing cold of
the air.

" In about an hour's climbing, w T e arrived at a place
where there w T as no snow, and where a warm and
comfortable vapor issued from the mountain ; which
induced us to make another halt. From this spot it
was only about 300 yards to the highest summit of the
mountain, where we arrived in full time to see the most
wonderful and most sublime sight in nature.

" But here description must ever fall short ; for no
imagination has dared to form an idea of so glorious and
so magnificent a scene. Neither is there on the surface
of this globe, any one point that unites so many awful
and sublime objects. The immense elevation from the
surface of the earth, drawn as it were to a single point,
without any neighboring mountain for the senses and
the imagination to rest upon, and recover from their as-
tonishment in their way down to the world ; this point
or pinnacle, raised on the brink of a. bottomless gulf,

ON THE SUBLIME. 215

as old as the world, often discharging rivers of fire, and
throwing out burning rocks, with a noise that shakes
the whole island : add to this, the unbounded extent of
the prospect, comprehending the greatest diversity and
the most beautiful scenery in nature ; with the rising
sun, advancing in the east, to illuminate the wondrous
scene.

" The whole atmosphere by degrees kindled up, and
showed dimly and faintly the boundless prospect around.
Both sea and land looked dark and confused, as if only
emerging from their original chaos, and light and dark-
ness seemed still undivided ; till the morning by degrees
advancing, completed the separation. The stars are ex-
tinguished, and the shades disappear. The forests,
which but now seemed black and bottomless gulfs,
from whence no ray was reflected to show their form or
color, appear a new creation rising to the sight ; catch-
ing life and beauty from every increasing beam. The
scene still enlarges, and the horizon seems to widen and
expand itself on all sides ; till the sun, like the great
Creator, appears in the east, and with its plastic ray
completes the mighty scene ! All appears enchant-
ment ; and it is with difficulty we can believe we are
still on earth. The senses, unaccustomed to the sub-
limity of such a scene, are bewildered and confounded ;
and it is not till after some time, that they are capable
of separating and judging of the objects that compose it.
The body of the sun is seen rising from the ocean, im-
mense tracts both of sea and land intervening; the
islands of Lipari, Panari, Alicudi, Stromboli, and Vol-
cano, with their smoking summits, appear under your
feet ; and you look clown on the whole of Sicily as on a
map ; and can trace every river through all its windings,
from its source to its mouth. The view is absolutely
boundless on every side ; nor is there any one ob-
ject, within the circle of vision, to interrupt it ; so that
the sight is everywhere lost in the immensity : and I am
persuaded it is only from the imperfection of our organs,
that the coasts of Africa, and of Greece, are not dis-
covered, as they are certainly above the horizon."*

* BryHnnne, vol. i. p. 200.

216 LECTURE XVI.

This description, by Sir William Hamilton, of the
eruption of Vesuvius, is of a totally opposite character ;
and the sublimity of it is almost entirely destroyed by
the horrors it contains : —

"In an instant," he says, "a fountain of liquid fire
began to rise, and, gradually increasing, rose to the
amazing height of 10,000 feet, and upward: the black-
est smoke accompanied the red-hot, transparent, and
liquid lava, interrupting its splendid brightness here and
there, by patches of the darkest hue. Within these
clouds of smoke, at the very moment they broke out,
pale electrical fire was seen playing about in oblique
lines. The wind, though gentle, was sufficient to carry
these blasts of smoke out of the column of fire, and a
collection of them by degrees formed a black and ex-
tensive curtain behind it, while other parts of the sky
were clear, and the stars entirely bright. All this time,
the miserable inhabitants of Ottajano were involved in
the utmost distress and danger, by the showers of stones
which fell upon them. Many of the inhabitants flew to
the churches, and others were preparing to quit the town,
when a sudden and violent report was heard, and pres-
ently fell a vast shower of stones and large pieces of
scoriae, some of which were of the diameter of seven or
eight feet, and must have weighed, before they fell,
above one hundred pounds. In an instant, the town,
and country about it, was on fire in many places. To
add to the horror of the scene, incessant volcanic light-
ning was rushing about the black cloud that surrounded
them, and the sulphureous smell would scarcely allow
them to draw their breath. In this dreadful situation
they remained about twenty-five minutes, when the vol-
canic storm ceased at once ; and Vesuvius remained
sullen and silent."

The sublimity of the first of these descriptions ap-
proaches the confines of the beautiful ; — in the last, of
the horrible. We must take great care, in the selection
of sublime objects, not to choose those which are too
horrible ; or which remind us too intimately of danger ;
because, as the sublime always implies some mixture of
pleasure, strong compassion and violent horror entirely

ON THE SUBLIME. 217

destroy it. "All sounds/' says Mr. Alison, "in general
are sublime, which are associated with the idea of dan-
ger ; — the howling of a storm, the murmuring of an
earthquake, the report of artillery. All sounds," he adds,
" in the same manner, are sublime, which are associated
with the idea of deep melancholy, — as the tolling of the
passing bell." Now, I confess I do not call either the
murmuring of an earthquake, or the howling of a storm,
or the report of artillery, or the tolling of a passing bell,
sublime sounds, but merely horrible sounds ; they are so
devoid of every mixture of pleasure, that they excite
nothing but fear or compassion, according as we our-
selves, or others, are most nearly affected by them ; they
are sublime in poetry or in description, but in real nature
they are dreadful, and nothing else. In description, al-
most any thing, however dreadful, may be made sublime
by the prodigious mitigation of the real horror, which is
always remarkable when the passions are excited at
second-hand. As I have before traced a connection
between that feeling of the beautiful, excited by the in-
tervention of matter, and that which presents itself to
the mind from the contemplation of moral qualities, it is
equally easy, in this stronger and more marked feeling
of the sublime, to trace a similar resemblance. All those
qualities of mind which excite wonder, and any portion
of fear, — even that very subdued species of it we call
respect, — raise an elevated sentiment in the mind, pre-
cisely similar to the sublime of natural objects. Im-
mense courage, whether active or passive, is easily sub-
lime. " In the midst of this dreadful fire and carnage,"
says Voltaire, speaking of the battle of Fontenoy, " the
English officers were seen, with the same coolness they
would have displayed on the parade, leveling the mus-
kets of the soldiers with their canes, in order that they
might fire with due precision." The death of General
Wolfe is quite sublime, from the love of life being so en-
tirely swallowed up in the love of glory. " Toward the
end of the battle, he received a new wound in the breast;
he was immediately conveyed behind the rear rank, and
laid upon the ground. Soon after, a shout was heard,
and one of the officers who stood bv him exclaimed,

K

218 LECTURE XVI.

• How they run V The dying hero asked, with some
emotion, ' Who run ?' ' The enemy/ replied the officer,
' they give w T ay everywhere.' ' Now, God be praised,'
says Wolfe, ' I shall die happy !' He then turned on his
side, closed his eyes, and expired."

Firmness and constancy of purpose, that withstands
all solicitation, and, in spite of all dangers, goes on
straightly to its object, is very often sublime. The res-
olution of St. Paul, in going up to Jerusalem, where he
has the firmest conviction that he shall undergo every
species of persecution, quite comes within this descrip-
tion of feeling. "What mean ye to weep and to break
my heart ? I am ready, not to be bound only, but to
die, at Jerusalem, for the name of Jesus. I know that
ye all, before whom I have preached the kingdom of
God, shall see my face no more ! Wherefore I take you
to record this day, that I am pure from the blood of all
men. I have coveted no man's silver, or gold, or ap-
parel. Ye yourselves know, that these hands have
ministered unto my necessities, and unto them which
were with me ; and now it is witnessed in every city
through which I pass, that bonds and afflictions await
me at Jerusalem ; but not one of these things move me,
neither count I my life dear to myself, so that I might
finish my course with joy, and the ministry which I
have received, to testify the gospel of the grace of God."

There is something exceedingly majestic in the steadi-
ness with which the Apostle points out the single object
of his life, and the unquenchable courage with which he
walks toward it. " I know 1 shall die, but I have a
greater object than life, — the zeal of a high duty.
Situation allows some men to think of safety ; I not only
must not consult it, but I must go where I know it will
be most exposed. I must hold out my hands for chains,
and my body for stripes, and my soul for misery. I am
ready to do it all!" These are the feelings by which
alone bold truths have been told to the world ; by which
the bondage of falsehood has been broken, and the chains
of slavery snapped asunder ! It is in vain to talk of men
numerically ; if the passions of a man are exalted to a

ON THE SUBLIME. 219

feebleness and fluctuation of his nature are shamed
away, you must not pretend to calculate upon his efforts.
Under the influence of sublime feelings, sometimes liberty,
sometimes religious men, have sprung up from the dust,
to shiver the oldest dominions ; to toss to the ground the
highest despots ; to astonish ages to come with the im-
mensity, and power, and grandeur of human feelings.
In all desperate situations, these are the feelings which
must rescue us : when prudence is mute, when reason is
baffled, when all the ordinary resources of discretion are
exhausted and dried up, — there is no safety but in heroic
passions, no hope but in sublime men. There is no other
hope for Europe at this moment, but that high and om-
nipotent vengeance, which demands years of cruelty and
oppression, in order that it may be lighted up in the
hearts of a whole people ; but which, when it does break
out into action, is so rapid and so terrible, that it resem-
bles more the judgments of God than the deeds of men.
Men are very apt to be sublime when they speak of
themselves, and give vent to those great passions which
the important events of life engender. The speech
which Logan, the Indian chief, made to Lord Dunmore,
in the year 1775, is full of sublimity. Though he was a
great friend to the English, his wife and all his children
were murdered by them : this unworthy return excited
his vengeance ; he took up the hatchet, and signalized
himself against the whites. In a decisive battle, how-
ever, which was fought upon the great Kanhaway, the
Indians were defeated, and sued for peace ; and this was
the speech made by Logan, which is so fine that its
authenticity has been questioned, but it is now establish-
ed beyond a doubt, by the testimony of Mr. Jefferson.
" I appeal to any white man to say, if ever he entered
Logan's cabin hungry, and he gave him not meat ? if
ever he came cold, and naked, and he clothed him not ?
During the course of the long last bloody war, Logan
remained idle in his cabin, an advocate for peace. Such
was my love for the whites, that my countrymen pointed
as I passed, and said, ' Logan is the friend of white men.'
I had even thought to have lived with you, but for the
injuries of one man. Colonel Cressop, the last spring, in

220 LECTURE XVI.

cold blood, and unprovoked, murdered all the relations
of Logan ; not sparing even my women and children :
there runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of any
living creature ! This called on me for revenge : I have
sought it. I have killed many ! I have fully glutted
my vengeance. For my country, I rejoice at the beams
of peace ; but do not harbor a thought that mine is the
joy of fear : Logan never felt fear : he will not turn on
his heel to save his life. Who is there to mourn for
Logan ? not one !"

I am going to say rather an odd thing, but I can not
help thinking that the severe and rigid economy of a
man in distress, has something in it very sublime, espe-
cially if it be endured for any length of time serenely
and in silence. I remember a very striking instance of
it in a young man, since dead ; he was the son of a coun-
try curate, who had got him a berth on board a man-of-
war, as midshipman. The poor curate made a great ef-
fort for his son ; fitted him out well with clothes, and gave
him £50 in money. The first week, the poor boy lost
his chest, clothes, money, and every thing he had in the
world. The ship sailed for a foreign station ; and his
loss was without remedy. He immediately quitted his
mess, ceased to associate with the other midshipmen,
who were the sons of gentlemen ; and for five years,
without mentioning it to his parents — who he knew
could not assist him, — or without borrowing a farthing
from any human being, without a single murmur or com-
plaint, did that poor lad endure the most abject and de-
grading poverty, at a period of life when the feelings are
most alive to ridicule, and the appetites most prone to
indulgence. Now, I confess I am a mighty advocate for
the sublimity of such long and patient endurance. If
you can make the world stare and look on, there, you
have vanity, or compassion, to support you ; but to bury
all your wretchedness in your own mind, — to resolve
that you will have no man's pity, w r hile you have one
effort left to procure his respect, — to harbor no mean
thought in the midst of abject poverty, but, at the very
time you are surrounded by circumstances of humility
and depression, to found a spirit of modest independ-

ON THE SUBLIME. 221

ence upon the consciousness of having always acted
well ; — this is a sublime, which, though it is found in the
shade and retirement of life, ought to be held up to the
praises of men, and to be looked upon as a noble model
for imitation.

The confidence which very great men have in them-
selves, partakes of this feeling. There is something ex-
tremely grand and imposing in their firm reliance upon
their own genius ; and what in common men would be
the height of presumption, is in them, not only tolerated,
but vehemently and justly admired. Such is the answer
of Alexander to Parmenio ; — Csesar to the Pilot ; — Ma-
rius to the man who saw him sitting on the ruins of
Carthage. There is a very sublime piece of insolence,
which Homer has put into the mouth of Achilles. He
has seized upon Lycaon, and is going to put him to
death. The young man prays to him, in the most hum-
ble and supplicating manner, to spare his life. " Wretch!"
says Achilles, " do you fear to die ? do you complain of
death ? Look at me ! how beautiful, how vast, how
brave am I ! — even / must perish ! A hero was my
father, a goddess produced me, and yet the hour will
come, be it morning, or evening, or noon, when even I
must fall by the arrow or the spear !" Lucullus, when
he marched up to Tigranocerta, had an army of 300,000
men to attack. What was the conduct of Lucullus ?
He did not go about to his officers and say, " Do you
think I had better attack them ? or what do you think
about it ? I have really a great mind to do so." His
army and his officers were disconcerted with their num-
bers. Lucullus, the very moment he glanced at their
position, exclaimed, " We have them!" It happened
to be on one of those days which the Romans had
marked out in their calendar as unfortunate, because it
had formerly been memorable by defeats. They re-
quested him to consider this well, and not to hazard a
battle on such a day. "/will put it among the fortunate
days," said he, and immediately ordered them to march.
A hundred thousand barbarians fell in the battle ; with
the loss of five Romans killed, and a hundred wounded.

The calm resignation to inevitable fate, equally re-

222 LECTURE XVI.

moved from insolence and fear, and which is so peculiar
to great minds, is to be classed among the sublimer feel-
ings of our nature. In this manner Socrates drank the
poison ; the three hundred perished at the Straits of
Greece ; so died the Chancellor More on the scaffold,
and the great Lord Falkland in the field ; and in the
same manner, the memorable Lord Strafford pleaded
before his enemies : "And now, my lords/' he says, "I
thank God I have been (by his blessing) sufficiently in-
structed in the extreme vanity of all temporary enjoy-
ments, compared to the importance of our eternal dura-
tion; and so, my lords, even so, with all humility, and
all tranquillity of mind, I submit clearly and freely to
your judgments ; and whether that righteous doom shall
be to life or death, I shall repose myself, full of gratitude
and confidence, in the arms of the great Author of my
existence."

" Certainly," says Whitelock (with his usual candor,)
" never any man acted such a part on such a theater,
with more wisdom, constancy, and eloquence ; with
greater reason, judgment, and temper ; and with a bet-
ter grace in all his words and actions, — than did this
great and excellent person : and he moved the hearts
of all his auditors (some few excepted) to pity and re-
morse."

All these men, in their different walks of life, as warriors,
or as statesmen, seemed, at the approach of their destiny, to
have enveloped themselves in their own greatness ; and
to have been lifted up above us, by a kind of serenity to
which we should feel it impossible, in similar situations,
to attain.

I have been thus diffuse upon the subject of the sub-
lime in morals, because it is of all things the most in-
spiring and useful, to contemplate the best models of our
own species, and to know w r hat those limits are, to which
our nature really does extend ; and one of the great ad-
vantages of that classical education in which we are
trained in this country, is, that it sets before us so many
examples of sublimity in action, and of sublimity in
thought. It is impossible for us, in the first and most
ardent years of life, to read the great actions of the two

ON THE SUBLIME. 223

greatest nations in the world, so beautifully related, with-
out catching, ourselves, some taste for greatness, and a
love for that glory which is gained by doing greater and
better things than other men. And though the state of
order and discipline into which the world is brought,
does not enable a man frequently to do such things, as
every day produced in the fierce and eventful democ-
raties of Greece and Rome, yet, to love that which is
great, is the best security for hating that which is little ;
the best cure for envy ; the safest antidote for revenge ;
the surest pledge for the abhorrence of malice ; the
noblest incitement to love truth, and manly independ-
ence, and honorable labor, — -to glory in spotless inno-
cence, and build up the system of life upon the rock of
integrity.

It is the greatest and first use of history, to show us the
sublime in morals, and to tell us what great men have
done in perilous seasons. Such beings, and such actions,
dignify our nature, and breathe into us a virtuous pride
which is the parent of every good. Wherever you
meet with them in the page of history, read them, mark
them, and learn from them how to live, and how to die !
for the object of common men, is only to live. The
object of such men as I have spoken of, was to live
grandly, and in favor with their own difficult spirits : to
live, if in war, gloriously ; if in peace, usefully, justly, and
freely ! !

LECTURE XVII.

ON THE FACULTIES OF ANIMALS, AS COMPARED WITH
THOSE OF MEN.

I confess I treat on this subject with some degree of
apprehension and reluctance ; because, I should be very
sorry to do injustice to the poor brutes, who have no
professors to revenge their cause by lecturing on our
faculties : and at the same time I know there is a very
strong anthropical party, who view all eulogiums on the
brute creation with a very considerable degree of sus-
picion ; and look upon every compliment which is paid
to the ape, as high treason to the dignity of man.

There may, perhaps, be more of rashness and ill-fated
security in my opinion, than of magnanimity or libe-
rality ; but I confess I feel myself so much at my ease
about the superiority of mankind, — I have such a marked
and decided contempt for the understanding of every
baboon I have yet seen, — I feel so sure that the blue ape
without a tail will never rival us in poetry, painting, and
music, — that I see no reason whatever, why justice may
not be done to the few fragments of soul, and tatters of
understanding, which they may really possess. I have
sometimes, perhaps, felt a little uneasy at Exeter 'Change,
from contrasting the monkeys with the 'prentice-boys
who are teasing them ; but a few pages of Locke, or a
few lines of Milton, have always restored me to tran-
quillity, and convinced me that the superiority of man
had nothing to fear.

Philosophers have been much puzzled about the essen-
tial characteristics of brutes, by which they may be
distinguished from men. Some define a brute to be an
animal that never laughs, or an animal incapable of

FACULTIES OF ANIMALS AND OF MEN. 225

laughter : some say they are mute animals. The Peri-
patetics "allowed them a sensitive power, but denied
them a rational one. The Platonists allowed them rea-
son and understanding; though in a degree less pure,
and less refined, than that of men. Lactantius allows
them every thing which men have, except a sense of
religion : and some skeptics have gone so far as to say
they have this also. Descartes maintained that brutes
are mere inanimate machines, absolutely destitute, not
only of all reason, but of all thought and reflection ; and
that all their actions are only consequences of the
exquisite mechanism of their bodies. This system, how-
ever, is much older than Descartes ; it was borrowed by
him from Gomez Pereira, a Spanish physician, who
employed thirty years in composing a treatise on this
subject, which he very affectionately called by the name
of his father and mother — " Antoniana Margarita."
Systems and theories, however, differ very materially in
their importance, according to the parent who ushers
them into the world, and the obscurity or notoriety of
the name to which they happen to be connected. Poor
Gomez was so far from having opponents, that he had
not even readers : his theory, in the hands of Descartes,
excited a controversy which reached from one end of
Europe to the other : many, who maintained the oppo-
site hypothesis to Descartes, contended that brutes are
endowed with a soul, essentially inferior to that of man ;
and to this soul some have impiously allowed immor-
tality. But the most curious of all opinions, respecting
the understanding of beasts, is that advanced by Pere
Bougeant, a Jesuit, in a work entitled " Philosophical
Amusement on the Language of Beasts." In this book
he contends, that each animal is inhabited by a separate
and distinct devil ; that not only this was the case with
respect to cats, which have long been known to be very
favorite residences of familiar spirits, but that a peculiar
devil swam with every turbot, grazed with every ox,
soared with every lark, dived with every duck, and was
roasted with every chicken.

The most common notion now prevalent, with respect
to animals, is, that they are guided by instinct ; that the

226 LECTURE XVII.

discriminating circumstance between the minds of ani-
mals and of men is, that the former do what 'they do
from instinct, the latter from reason. Now, the question
is, is there any meaning to the word instinct ? what is
that meaning ? and what is the distinction between in-
stinct and reason ? If I desire to do a certain thing,
adopt certain means to effect it, and have a clear and
precise notion that those means are directly subservient
to that end, — there I act from reason ; but, if I adopt
means subservient to the end, and am uniformly found
to do so, and am not in the least degree conscious that
these means are subservient to the end, — there I certainly
do act from some principle very different from reason ;
and to which principle, it is as convenient to give the
name of instinct, as any other name. If I build a house
for my family, and lay it out into different apartments,
separating it horizontally with floors, and give the
obvious principles on which I have done so, — here is
plainly an invention of meaning, and an application of
previous experience, which any body would call by the
name of reason ; but if I am detected making folding-
doors to the drawing-room, putting up snug shelves in
the butler's pantry, and making the whole house as
convenient as possible, and it is quite plain at the same
time that I have no possible motive to alledge why I have
done these things, that I am quite ignorant folding doors
are pleasant at routs, and shelves eminently useful to
butlers, for the more orderly and decorous arrangement
of glass ware, — there, it is very plain I am not constituted
as other men are ; that I am not applying previous
experience to new cases, — not arguing that what has
happened before, will happen again ; but that I am
generically different from all others of my species, and
that my mind is not the mind of man. Bees, it is well
known, construct their combs with small cells on both
sides, fit for holding their store of honey, and for receiv-
ing their young. There are only three possible figures
of the cells, which can make them all equal and similar,
without any useless interstices : these are, the equilateral
triangle, the square, and the regular hexagon. It is
well known to mathematicians, that there is not a fourth

FACULTIES OF ANIMALS AND OF MEN. 227

way possible, in which a plane may be cut into little
spaces, that shall be equal, similar, and regular, without
leaving any interstices. Of the three, the hexagon is
the most proper both for conveniency and strength ; and
accordingly, bees — as if they were acquainted with these
things — make all their cells regular hexagons. As the
combs have cells on both sides, the cells may either be
exactly opposite, having partition against partition, — or
the bottom of a cell may rest upon the partitions,
between the cells, on the other side ; which will serve as
a buttress to strengthen it. The last way is the best for
strength; accordingly, the bottom of each cell rests
against the point where three partitions meet on the
other side, which gives it all the strength possible. The
bottom of a cell may either be one plane perpendicular
to the side partitions, or it may be composed of several
planes meeting in a solid angle in the middle point. It
is only in one of these two ways, that all the cells can be
similar without losing room; and, for ihe same intention,
the planes of which the bottom is composed — if there be
more than one — must be exactly three in number, and
neither more nor less. It has been demonstrated also,
that by making the bottom to consist of three planes
meeting in a point there is a saving of materials and
labor, — by no means inconsiderable. The bees, as if
acquainted with the principles of solid geometry, follow
them most accurately : the bottom of each cell being
composed of three planes, which make obtuse angles
with the side partitions, and with one another, and meet
in a point in the middle of the bottom ; the three angles
of this bottom, being supported by three partitions on the
other side of the comb, and the point of it by the common
intersection of those three partitions.

One instance more of the mathematical skill displayed
in the structure of a honeycomb deserves to be men-
tioned. It is a curious mathematical problem, at what
precise angle the three planes which compose the bottom
of a cell ought to meet, in order to make the greatest
possible saving, or the least expense of materials and
labor. This is one of those problems belonging to the
higher parts of mathematics, which are called problems

228 LECTURE XVII.

of maxima and minima. It has been resolved by some
mathematicians, particularly by Mr. Maclaurin, by a
fluxionary calculation, which is to be found in the ninth
volume of the " Transactions of the Royal Society of
London." He has determined precisely the angle re-
quired ; and he found by the most exact mensuration the
subject could admit, that it is the very angle in which
the three planes in the bottom of the cell of a honey-
comb do actually meet. How is all this to be explained?
Imitation it certainly is not ; for, after every old bee has
been killed, you may take the honeycomb and hatch a
new swarm of bees, that can not possibly have had any
communication with, or instruction from, the parents.
The young of every animal — though they have never
seen the dam, — will do exactly as all their species have
done before them. A brood of young ducks, hatched
under a hen, take to the water in spite of the remon-
strances and terrors of their spurious parent. All the
great habitudes of every species of animals, have repeat-
edly been proved to be independent of imitation. I re-
member Mr. Stewart, in his " Lectures," quotes an
experiment of this kind, made by Sir James Hall of
Edinburgh, who has distinguished himself so much by
his very important experiments upon the chemistry of
mineralogy. Sir James hatched some chickens in an
oven : within a few minutes after the shell was broken,
a spider was turned loose before this very youthful
brood; — the destroyer of flies had hardly proceeded a
few inches before he was descried by one of these oven-
born chickens, and, at one peck of his bill, immediately
devoured. This certainly was not imitation. A female
goat, very near delivery, died ; Galen cut out the young
kid, and placed before it a bundle of hay, a bunch of
fruit, and a pan of milk ; the young kid smelt to them
all very attentively, and then began to lap the milk.
This was not imitation. And what is commonly and
rightly called instinct, can not be explained away, under
the notion of its being imitation. Nor can it be mere
accident ; because, though it is not impossible that one
swarm of bees might adopt these figures and measure-
ments, without knowing their importance, it is not to be

FACULTIES OF ANIMALS AND OF MEN. 229

believed that mere accident can uniformly produce such
extraordinary effects. The warmest admirers of honey,
and the greatest friends to bees, will never, I presume,
contend that the young swarm, who begin making
honey three or four months after they are born, and im-
mediately construct these mathematical cells, should,
have gained their geometrical knowledge as we gain
ours, and in three months' time outstrip Mr. Maclaurin
in mathematics as much as they did in making honey.
It would take a senior wrangler at Cambridge ten hours
a day, for three years together, to know enough mathe-
matics for the calculation of these problems, with which
not only every queen bee, but every under-graduate
grub, is acquainted the moment it is born. A few more
instances of a principle of action among animals, which
can not be reason, — and I have done upon this part of
the subject. If you shake caterpillars off a tree in every
direction, they instantly turn round and climb up, though
they had never formerly been on the surface of the
ground. This is a very striking instance of instinct.
The caterpillar finds its food, and is nourished, upon the
tree, and not upon the ground ; but surely the caterpillar
can never tell that such an exertion is necessary to its
salvation ; and therefore, it acts not from rational motives,
but from blind impulse. Ants and beavers lay up maga-
zines. Where do they get their knowledge that it will
not be so easy to collect food in rainy weather as it is in
the summer ? Men and women know these things, be-
cause their grandpapas and grandmammas have told them
so ; ants, hatched from the egg artificially, or birds hatch-
ed in this manner, have all this knowledge by intuition,
without the smallest communication with any of their
relations. Now, observe what the solitary wasp does ;
she digs several holes in the sand, in each of which she
deposits an egg, though she certainly knows not that
an animal is deposited in that egg, — and still less that
this animal must be nourished with other animals. She
collects a few green flies, rolls them up neatly in sepa-
rate parcels (like Bologna sausages), and stuffs one
parcel into each hole where an egg is deposited. When
the wasp-worm is hatched, it finds a store of provisions

230 LECTURE XVII.

ready made ; and what is most curious, the quantity
allotted to each is exactly sufficient to support it, till it
attains the period of wasphood, and can provide for
itself. This instinct of the parent wasp is the more re-
markable, as it does not feed upon flesh itself. Here
the little creature has never seen its parent ; for, by the
time it is born, the parent is always eaten by sparrows :
and yet, without the slightest education, or previous ex-
perience, it does every thing that the parent did before
it. Now the objectors to the doctrine of instinct may
say what they please, but young tailors have no intuitive
mode of making pantaloons; — a new-born mercer can
not measure diaper ; — Nature teaches a cook's daughter
nothing about sippets. All these things require with
us seven years' apprenticeship; but insects are like
Moliere's persons of quality, — they know every thing
(as Moliere says), without having learned any thing.
" Les gens de qualite savent tout, sans avoir rien appris."
The most strenuous objector to these histories of the
singular and untaught instincts of animals, is the Comte
de Buffon ; and he has been particularly severe upon
bees, whose reputation for architecture and civil economy
he has attempted entirely to overthrow. Of Maclaurin's
discovery of the angle, he takes no notice, and returns
no answer to it ; neither does he condescend to notice
the particular manner in which the comb is placed back
to back. His observations upon the hexagonal form of
the cell, appears to me, I confess, for so great a man,
very singular. " The hexagonal form of the cells of the
bee, which have been the subject of so much admiration,
furnish an additional proof of the stupidity of these in-
sects. This figure, though extremely regular, is nothing
but a mechanical result, which is often exhibited in the
rudest productions of nature. Crystals, and several
other stones, as well as particular salts, constantly assume
this figure. The small scales in the skin of the roussete,
or great Ternate bat, are hexagonal, because each scale
when growing obstructs the progress of its neighbor, and
tends to occupy as much space as possible. We likewise
find these hexagons in the second stomachs of some
ruminating animals ; in certain seeds, capsules, and

FACULTIES OF ANIMALS AND OF MEN. 231

flowers. If we fill a vessel with cylindrical grain, and,
after filling up the interstices with water, shut it close
up, and boil the water, all these cylinders will become
hexagonal columns. The reason is obvious, and purely
mechanical. Each cylindrical grain tends, by its swell-
ing, to occupy as much space as possible in the limited
dimensions of the hive: and therefore, as the bodies of
the bees are cylindrical, they must necessarily make
their cells hexagonal, from the reciprocal obstruction
they give to each other."

In the case of the boiled grain, the vessel is close ; but
the comb, I fancy, in common bee-hives, by no means
extends itself through the whole dimensions of the straw
hut ; therefore, there is no pressure on the outside :
neither do I see how there is any pressure from within,
because the cell is made before the young bee is put in
it, and the very first plan and groundwork of each cell
is the hexagon, long before the pressure of body in the
old bee can effect it. Besides, it really seems quite
ludicrous to suppose, that such extraordinary regularity
can be produced by the accidental pushing and scram-
bling of ten thousand insects, working one at one moment
at this cell, then flying off to a cowslip, then going to
another cell, then appointed to digest wax for the public
good. Make the slightest inequality in the pushing, let
one bee neglect to scramble for a single instant, or let
one be scraping away while the other is adding, and the
whole regularity is immediately destroyed, without the
possibility of restoring it. And if they did push and
scramble with this wonderful meter and rhythm, instead
of destroying the wonder of the insect, it would be
increasing it. If there be any necessary connection
between the hexagon and this origin of its formation,
why do not wasps and ants deposit their nests in hex-
agons as perfect ? or why does not the insect that works
the coral ? The real fact seems to be, that Nature has
originally determined, with scrupulous precision, how
every animal shall breed and build ; and has confined
them to a particular shape, as much as to a particular
position. The wasp takes one form, the bee another,
the chaffinch another, the robin-redbreast another. Na-

232 LECTURE XVII.

ture has chosen that some animals should be more
accurate and fine in their habits ; others, more careless,
lax, and inattentive. Upon some, she seems to have
bestowed vast attention : and to have sketched out
others in a moment, and turned them adrift. The house-
fly skims about, perches upon a window or a nose, break-
fasts and sups with you, lays his eggs upon your white
cotton stockings, runs into the first hole in the wall when
it is cold, and perishes with as much unconcern as he
lives. The bees (as is commonly said of them, and as
is strictly true) do live together in a city, with a com-
mon object. It has pleased their Maker, that their food
should be prepared with considerable labor and art ; and
their houses constructed with the greatest attention to
durability and convenience. What is there in all this,
that should make Buffon so angry or skeptical ? Can
not He who made man, make a miracle one thousand
times less miraculous than man ? If He have implanted
in our nature one or two stimuli which are sufficient, in
the progress of life, gradually to unfold the soul that lies
hidden within us, why may He not have given to another
class of animals a great step at first, if He resolved that
that should be the only progress they ever were to make
in their momentary existence ? But there is no use in
putting questions why Providence may not have done
this, or done that. Providence has done it! There
are the bees, and there the comb ; — there are the rafters,
and there is the floor, and there is Colin Maclaurin, with
his angle ! and get rid of it how you can ; and if you
are determined to get rid of it, you had better account
for the formation of a hive in some more sensible man-
ner, than the pushing and scrambling of Buffon. When
I call that principle upon which the bees or any other
animals proceed to their labors, the principle of instinct,
I only mean to say it is not a principle of reason. How-
ever the knowledge is gained, it is not gained as our
knowledge is gained. It is not gained by experience, or
imitation, for I have cited cases of birds and bees that
have never seen nest, or cell, — who have made one and
the other, as if they were perfectly acquainted with them.
It can not be invention, or the adaptation of means to

FACULTIES OF ANIMALS AND OF MEN. 233

ends ; because, as the animal works before he knows
what event is going to happen, he can not know what
the end is, to which he is accommodating the means :
and if he be actuated by any other principle than these,
the generation of ideas in animals is (contrary to the
doctrine of Condillac) very different from the generation
of ideas in men.

All the wonderful instincts of animals, which, in my
humble opinion, are proved beyond a doubt, and the
belief in which has not decreased with the increase of
science and investigation, — all these instincts are given
them only for the combination or preservation of their
species. If they had not these instincts, they would be
swept off the earth in an instant. This bee, that under-
stands architecture so well, is as stupid as a pebble-
stone, out of his own particular business of making
honey ; and, with all his talents, he only exists that boys
may eat his labors, and poets sing about them. Ut pueris
placeas et declamatio fias . A peasant girl of ten years
old, puts the whole republic to death with a little smoke ;
their palaces are turned into candles, and every clergy-
man's wife makes mead-wine of the honey ; and there is
an end of the glory and wisdom of the bees ! Whereas,
man has talents that have no sort of reference to his
existence ; and without which, his species might remain
upon earth in the same safety as if they had them not.
The bee works at that particular angle which saves
most time and labor ; and the boasted edifice he is con-
structing is only for his egg : but Somerset House, and
Blenheim, and the Louvre, have nothing to do with
breeding. Epic poems, and Apollo Belvideres, and
Venus de Medicis, have nothing to do with living and
eating. We might have discovered pig-nuts without
the Royal Society, and gathered acorns without reason-
ing about curves of the ninth order. The immense
superfluity of talent given to man, which has no bearing
upon animal life, which has nothing to do with the mere
preservation of existence, is one very distinguishing cir-
cumstance in this comparison. There is no other animal
but man to whom mind appears to be given for any
other purpose than the preservation of body.

234 LECTURE XVII.

If I am right in explaining the meaning of instinct, as
distinguished from reason, and right in saying that ani-
mals are guided by it, a question very naturally arises,
how far men are guided by it themselves. It is a ques-
tion of great difficulty and subtilty, which it would be
very tedious to investigate with the attention its intricacy
would require. When Locke so successfully attacked
the doctrine of innate ideas, and innate principles of
speculative truth, he was thought by many to have over-
turned all innate principles whatever ; to have divested
the human mind of every passion, affection, and instinct,
and to have left in it nothing but the powers of memory,
sensation, and intellect. Hence arose many philosophers
at home and abroad, who maintained, upon the principles
of Locke, that in the human mind there are no instincts,
but that every thing which had usually been called by
that name is resolvable into association and habit. This
doctrine was attacked by Lord Shaftesbury, who intro-
duced into the theory of mind, as faculties derived from
nature, a sense of beauty, a sense of honor, and a sense
of ridicule ; and these he considered as the test of a spec-
ulative truth and moral rectitude. His lordship's prin-
ciples were in part adopted by Professor Hutchinson, of
Glasgow, who published a system of moral philosophy,
founded upon a sense of instinct, to which he gave the
name of the moral sense ; and the undoubted merit of his
book procured him many followers. It being now sup-
posed that the human mind was endowed with instinct-
ive principles of action, a sect of very lazy philosophers
arose, who found it convenient to refer every phenom-
enon to a separate instinct. Immediately we had the
fighting instinct, the loving instinct, the educating in-
stinct, the hoarding instinct, the cheating instinct, and
even the sneezing instinct. The most able refuter of
these instincts is Dr. Priestley ; who maintains, with the
earliest disciples of Locke, that we have from nature no
innate sense of truth, — that even the action of sucking in
new-born infants is to be accounted for upon principles
of mechanism. The question is a very difficult one, and
I rather decline entering into a long dissertation upon
suckling, in this Institution ; but I believe Dr. Hartley is

FACULTIES OF ANIMALS AND OF MEN. 235

in the right, and that it would not be easy to show any-
clear case of instinct among men ; and that children
suckle first mechanically, then receive pleasure from it,
then associate the action with the pleasure, and then do
it from appetite. There is an extremely good article
upon the subject of instinct in the Scotch Encyclopaedia,
in which Dr. Reid is very justly censured for the con-
fusion he has made, in treating of the doctrine of instinct.
If a man swallow his food, all the requisite motions of
nerves and muscles take place in their proper order,
though the man neither knows, nor wills, any thing
about them. Breathing, according to the Doctor, de-
pends upon instinct. When a man is tumbling off his
horse, and makes an effort to recover himself, he regains
his saddle by instinct, according to Dr. Reid. Breathing,
with due submission to Dr. Reid, is a mere case of
mechanism, with which the mind has nothing to do. If
you recover yourself when you fall, your motion depends
upon mere habit and association ; the muscles that act
in swallowing, are, according to the Hartleian theory,
and in all probability, moved first mechanically, then by
volition. How it comes about, that the will can ever
move any part of the body, — that mind can ever act
upon matter, — is another question. That phenomenon is
common to almost every description of animate beings ;
but it is a great abuse of terms to call it by the name of
instinct. Actions performed with a view to accomplish
a certain end, are rational. Actions performed without
the spontaneity of the agent, are automatic. Actions
regularly performed without a view to the consequences
they produce, are instinctive. Upon these distinctions,
every discussion upon human and animal faculties must
be grounded.

One of the best attacks made upon the doctrine of in-
stinct, is by Dr. Darwin : but he fights too much against
common experience, to combat with much success. One
of Dr. Darwin's objections to this doctrine of instinct is,
that the instincts of animals bend to circumstances,
which, if they were arbitrary admonitions of nature, they
would not do. Our domestic birds, that are plentifully
supplied through the year with their adapted food, and

236 LECTURE XVII.

are covered by houses from the inclemency of the
weather, lay their eggs at any season ; which evinces
that the spring of the year is not pointed out to them,
says Dr. Darwin, by a necessary instinct. Now I con-
fess, to me, this fact points precisely to an opposite
inference. What is the instinct ? To hatch their young
at a season of the year when the weather is mild, and
when food is plenty. Nature knows nothing about the
Golden Letter ; she never looks into the almanac, and is
quite ignorant when Easter falls ; but she prompts the
bird to hatch her young, by those different feelings of
body, which copious food, and genial warmth, produce.
They are the feelings which precede the instinctive ac-
tion : and if you make perpetual spring to the animal all
the year round, similar feelings produce similar instincts ;
and, instead of refuting the supposition that the animal
is under the influence of instinct, powerfully confirm it.
Dr. Darwin's mistake proceeds from this : he supposes
Nature intended birds to hatch in April or May ; where-
as, Nature intended they should hatch when they are
warm, and well fed ; which, in a state of nature, they are
in those months ; but which, when protected by man, in
order that they may be eaten, they are at all times. It
would be just as rational to say, that Nature did not in-
tend the production of green peas to depend upon the
humid warmth of the spring, because the humid warmth
of the spring is counterfeited in hot-houses, and a dish of
peas is produced in December, to the astonishment of
ordinary understandings, and to the endless glory of the
lady at whose table they are displayed.

In the same manner the rabbit digs a burrow in his
wild state. In his tame state, he spares himself that
trouble. But to this, which delights Dr. Darwin so very
highly, I have two answers : a tame rabbit, in all proba-
bility, does not burrow in the earth, because he is shut
up in a deal box, and kept in a garret ; and if he refuse
to burrow, though turned out, the explanation of this
change in his instincts is accounted for precisely upon
the same principles as the last. Nature does not at once
put the animal upon making a burrow ; but it impels it to
do that thing by some previous feeling of body or mind,

FACULTIES OF ANIMALS AND OF MEN. 237

by hunger, by cold, by fear, or by the change of feelings
in the body, when about to produce its young. You
change the feelings which by the law of nature precede
the action, and then the action is not performed. You
may very likely discover some moral affection, or some
change in the body, which precedes all instinctive mo-
tions ; but the difficulty is still as great as it was before.
Why does cold make the rabbit dig a burrow ? Why
does warmth induce the bird to build a nest after that
ancient model of nests which it has never seen ? Such
things do not occur in our species. We must, therefore,
find for them some other appellation than that of reason,
by which all our actions are swayed.

The most curious instance of a change of instinct is
mentioned by Darwin. The bees carried over to Bar-
badoes and the Western Isles, ceased to lay up any
honey after the first year ; as they found it not useful to
them. They found the weather so fine and materials for
making honey so plentiful, that they quitted their grave,
prudent, and mercantile character, became exceedingly
profligate and debauched, eat up their capital, resolved
to work no more, and amused themselves by flying about
the sugar-houses, and stinging the blacks. The fact is,
that by putting animals in different situations, you may
change, and even reverse, any of their original propensi-
ties. Spallanzani brought up an eagle upon bread and
milk, and fed a dove on raw beef. The circumstances
by which an animal is surrounded, impel him to do so
and so, by the changes they produce in his body and
mind. Alter those circumstances, and he no longer
does as he did before. This, instead of disproving the
existence of an instinct, only points out the causes on
which it depends. Many actions of animals have been
mistaken for instinctive, which are not so ; or, rather,
the object for which they act has been mistaken. It is
supposed that ants lay up their magazines against the
winter: "but ants," says Buffbn, "are torpid in the win-
ter, and don't eat at all ; therefore, what is the use of
their magazines ?" Why, this is the use of their maga-
zines ; that there come often enough, before the season
of their torpor, three or four rainy days, when they can

238 LECTURE XVII.

not venture out to get any food, and then their mag-
azine is of importance. Besides, the Count should
have told us whether they do not revive again before
the provisions on which they subsist ; if they do, there is
another reason why they should have a stock in hand.
Neither does it disprove the existence of instinct, be-
cause the instinct is sometimes not so fine and so mi-
nute as might have been expected, or was supposed.
" The provisions of the ant, of the field-mouse, and of
the bee," says BufFon, " are discovered to be only use-
less and disproportioned masses, collected without any
view to futurity; and the minute and particular laws
of their pretended foresight are reduced to the general
and real law of feeling." All that this objection amounts
to is, that Nature has not impelled these animals to col-
lect a certain quantity avoirdupois ; that they are taught
to collect, and that the impulse only operates within
gross limits, but still with sufficient precision for the
preservation of the animal. So the instinct of a bird to
sit upon eggs exists, though it is given very grossly, for
it will sit upon a chalk-stone like an egg. The instinct
is to foster, with the heat of its body, that which it pro-
duces. In the absence of the bird, you put in that which
resembles its production ; the bird has no other mode of
judging, but by the eye, — the eye is deceived. This
only proves that the instinct is gross, not that it does not
exist. But while I am talking about the instincts of
ducks and rabbits, a certain instinct, very valuable in a
professor, admonishes me that I am tiring my audience,
and that it is time to put an end to my lecture. The
enemies of moral philosophy may, perhaps, say this feel-
ing is experience, and not instinct ; however, be it what
it may, I shall obey it, and conclude the subject at our
next meeting.

LECTURE XVIIL

ON THE FACULTIES OF BEASTS.

Before I proceed upon the body of this lecture, I wish
to state, by anticipation, the doctrines it will contain ;
and this I shall do very shortly, reserving the proof for
its proper place. Animals are not mere machines, like
clocks and watches. It is a very dangerous doctrine to
assert, that so much apparent choice and deliberation
can exist in mere matter. If they are not merely mate-
rial (like machines of human invention), they must be a
composition of mind and matter. There are observable
in the minds of brutes, faint traces and rudiments of the
human faculties. This position has been maintained by
Reid, Locke, Hartley, Stewart, and all the best writers
on these subjects. If man were a solitary animal, like
a lion or a bear, he would not be so superior to all ani-
mals as he is. If he had the hoof of oxen instead of
hands, he would not be so superior : neither would he,
if he had less perfect organs of speech ; nor if his life
were confined to a very few years, instead of being ex-
tended to seventy. But all these things will not do by
any means alone, as the degraders of human nature have
said ; for there are some animals, which very nearly
possess all these advantages, and yet are perfectly con-
temptible, when compared even to the lowest of men.
But the great source of man's superiority is, the immense
and immeasurable disproportion of those faculties, of
which Nature has given the mere rudiments to brutes ;
that this disproportion has made man a speculative ani-
mal, even where his mere existence is not concerned ;
that it has made him a progressive animal ; that it has
made him a religious animal ; and that upon that mere

240 LECTURE XVIII.

superiority, and on the very principle that the chain of
mind and spirit terminates here with man, the best and
the most irrefragable arguments for the immortality of
the soul are founded, which natural religion can afford :
that, independent of revelation, it would be impossible
not to perceive that man is the object of the creation,
and that he, and he alone, is reserved for another and a
better state of existence. These are my principles, in
which if any man here present differ from me, I trust at
least he will have the kindness and the politeness to
hear me.

There is another circumstance, very decisive of the
nature of instinct, and which goes strongly to show it is
something very different from reason. I mean the uni-
formity of actions in animals. The bees now build ex-
actly as they built in the time of Homer ; the bear is as
ignorant of good manners as he was two thousand years
past ; and the baboon is still as unable to read and write,
as persons of honor and quality were in the time of
Queen Elizabeth. Of the improvements made by the
insect tribe, we can not speak with much certainty ; and
the advocates for the perfectibility of animals, tell us,
it is impossible that ants' nests may be laid out with
much greater regularity than they used to be, and that
experience may have taught them many methods of
draining off water, and preventing the growth of ears
of barley. It certainly may, but we have no sort of
proof that it does; and the analogy of all large ani-
mals, whose economy we are perfectly acquainted
with, and can easily observe, is against the supposi-
tion. Neither is it from any lack of inconveniences,
nor any extraordinary contentedness with their situ-
ation, that any species of animals remains in such a
state of sameness. The wolf often kills twenty times
as much as he wants ; and if he could hit upon any means
of preserving his superfluous plunder, he would not per-
ish of hunger so often as he does. To lay traps for the
hunters, and to eat them as they were caught, would be
far preferable to all those animals who are the cause,
and the contents, of traps themselves. Animals, like
men, are goaded by wants and sufferings ; but, contrary

ON THE FACULTIES OF BEASTS. 241

to the nature of men, they do not overcome, but endure
them. The flesh of the savage was originally as strong
a temptation to the bear, as the flesh of the bear was to
the savage. The wants of the one impelled him to in-
vention ; the other retained his original stupidity, in spite
of his wants. There are some few and inconsiderable
instances of tribes of animals making some slight change
in their habits, to adapt themselves to any new situation
in which they may be placed ; but these changes are
very little ameliorative of their condition, and by no
means go to destroy the supposition of their being di-
rected in many instances by a mere instinct. This
sameness of habits in animals does not demonstrate that
they are not guided by reason, but it renders it in the
highest degree improbable that they should be. It is not
quite impossible, that animals resolving to build a nest,
should for two thousand years build precisely in the
same manner, and that this structure should be equally
resorted to, by those who have, and who have not, seen
the model of the nest ; — it is not impossible, but it is so
contrary to all former experience, that it certainly gives
us no relief from the pain of being forced to believe in
instinct. But the Chinese are stationary, and so are the
Hindoos, — they are now exactly what they were twenty
centuries ago. Certainly they are : but, then, they are
so from religious prejudice, transmitted from parent to
child ; and if it can be proved (which it can not), that
bees and ants only gain their habits from old bees and
ants, I admit the whole question of instinct is very ma-
terially changed : but the fact is the reverse ; and if the
fact were the reverse also with the Chinese, — if a young
Chinese, brought out of his own country very young,
were, without ever having seen another Chinese, to be-
gin at the age of five or six to eat rice with two sticks,
to clothe himself in blue and nankeen, and adore the
great idol Foo, we must call this sameness the sameness
of instinct ; but as he does these foolish things because
he lives with other Chinese, it is the sameness proceed-
ing from imitation, and strengthened, as we happen to
know it to be, by religious association. I have thus far
attempted to prove that brutes are guided by some prin-

242 LECTURE XVIII.

ciple, which is not the principle of reason. There is
another philosophy that degrades them merely to the
state of machines. The great Descartes looked upon a
brute as a mere machine, that could no more help acting
as it does act, and was no more conscious of how it acts,
than the Androides, or the chess-playing machine. All
that the arguments brought forward by Descartes, go to
prove, are, that such a case is possible ; — that they may
be so many machines, not that they are so, — that it in-
volves no contradiction to call them machines ; which
every one who understands any thing of reasoning, would
willingly grant : but, observe, when we have no means
of subjecting our question to the direct evidence of the
senses, or to mathematical demonstration, we must re-
sort to analogy ; without which, one conjecture is quite
as probable as another. We get from the observation
of ourselves, the notion both of voluntary and involun-
tary motion. We are conscious that when we choose
to put one leg before another we can do so. If we tum-
ble out of bed, we are conscious we fall to the ground
without the smallest intention of so doing, but that we
are overruled by a power we can not resist. Now, hav-
ing gained the knowledge of these two principles, from
what passes within ourselves, we proceed to apply it,
with as much attention as possible, to similarity of cir-
cumstances. A person sees another man, made to all
appearance like himself; he does not think him, per-
haps, quite so good looking, but it is the same sort of
animal ; and when he sees him walk, — presuming that
like effects are produced by like causes,— he believes that
he is not moved by any principle of mechanism, but that
the gentleman walks because he chooses to walk : but
the same person puts his foot upon a stone, and falls on
a sudden, flat upon his face; that, says the observer,
must be involuntary motion, because I have experienced
the same myself upon similar occasions. In the same
manner, he perceives a horse running after his food,
playing with other horses, avoiding pain and seeking
pleasure. Upon the same principle, that similar effects
are produced by similar causes, he determines that the
horse has sensation, and consciousness, and will ; still

ON THE FACULTIES OF BEASTS. 243

determining the matter by a reference to his own pre-
vious experience, which, whether it be a good or a bad
guide, is the only one that can possibly be resorted to in
such conjectures. By a reference to the same principle,
we believe that a stone, let loose from the hand, does not
fall to the ground by choice, but by necessity ; and be-
tween the two clear and extreme points, of motion pro-
duced by external agency, and motion produced by will,
delicate cases must occur, where the opposite analogies
are so equally balanced, that it is impossible to determine
whether the subject thinks or not. For instance, does
the sensitive plant think, when it contracts its leaves
upon being touched ? does it really feel danger or pain ?
or is it a mere involuntary contraction, such as takes
place in the human body when a nerve is stimulated ?
When a plant in a dark cellar turns round to drink in a
ray of light let in, is this the action of a reasoning being,
that knows what is its proper food, and seeks it ? or is
it a mere case of chemical action, in which there is no
interference of the will ? Opposite analogies seem to be
so balanced in these kinds of questions, that it is very
difficult to resolve them : but to comparison alone we
can resort for it ; and comparison shows us, that animals
can not possibly gain some of their knowledge as we
gain ours ; and it makes it also probable, that they do
gain a very considerable part precisely as we do.

Before I proceed to speak of the faculties of animals, I
wish to anticipate an objection which has been made to
my use of the word faculty. Some friends of mine have
asked me, whether animals had the religious faculty ;
and whether I mean to say, in stating they had the rudi-
ments of our faculties, that they had the rudiments of
this faculty also. Such sort of questions evince, more
than any thing else, the necessity of a little candor and
moderation on these topics, and of proceeding to ex-
planation, before we proceed to blame. I never before
heard religion called & faculty : a knowledge of religion
is acquired by our faculties, and it is the highest proof
of the degree in which we possess them ; but if the
power is to be confounded with the object of that power,
— if all those things that we acquire by means of our

244 LECTURE XVIII.

faculties are to be called our faculties, — then, navigation,
commerce, and agriculture are faculties ! Any man is
perfectly free to use the word in this sense if he pleases ;
only let it not be made an objection to me, that I have not
followed such an example, and that I have used words
as they always hitherto have been used. I shall now
proceed to the specification of my authorities.*

Respecting the faculties of animals, I shall translate
from " Lettres sur les Animaux," by Bailly, two anec-
dotes respecting brutes, which Mr. Stewart quotes in
his " Elements of the Philosophy of the Human Mind."

" A friend of mine," says Mr. Bailly, " a man of un-
derstanding and strict veracity, related to me these
two facts, of which he was an eye-w r itness. He had a
very intelligent ape, to whom he amused himself by giv-
ing w 7 alnuts, of w T hich the animal was extremely fond.
One day, he placed them at such a distance from the
ape, that the animal, restrained by his chain, could not
reach them : after many useless efforts to indulge him-
self in his favorite delicacy, he happened to see a servant
pass by with a napkin under his arm ; he immediately
seized hold of it, whisked it out beyond his arm, to beat
the nuts within his reach, and so obtained possession of
them. His mode of breaking the walnut was a fresh
proof of his inventive powers ; he placed the walnut
upon the ground, let a great stone fall upon it, and so got
at its contents. One day, the ground on which he had
placed the walnut was so much softer than usual, that,
instead of breaking the walnut, the ape only drove it
into the earth : what does the animal do ? he takes up a
tile, places the walnut upon it, and then lets the stone
fall, while the walnut is in this position."

Admitting these facts to be true, — and they appear to
be well authenticated, — it is impossible to deny that
there passed in the mind of this animal, all that custom-
ary process of invention that w T ould take place in our
own minds, when we were engaged in similar under-
takings. If a man were to drop his hat in the water,
and by means of a stick to get it out again, he would

* Locke, pp. 59, 60, 61, 213, 330; Hartley, 247; Reid, 114.

ON THE FACULTIES OF BEASTS. 245

have done much the same sort of thing as this animal
did. When Mr. Bramah invents his patent locks, I can
tell him what passes in his mind : he first pauses in-
tensely upon the idea of what he wishes to accomplish,
— an outside ward or wards, that revolve with the key,
or some of the mysteries of locksmithery : after he has
paused some time, all the ideas anywise related to this
first idea, flock into his mind, and among these, he dis-
covers some relation which one bears to the other, that
he did not know before, and which will lead to the end
he has in view. Exactly so Condillac's ape : his object
was to obtain the walnut ; he dwelt upon that idea ; a
thousand related ideas occurred to his mind ; he put
out one foot, then another ; laid himself down upon his
back, to lengthen the extent of his foot as much as possi-
ble ; and then, when he was dwelling upon these ideas,
the relation that subsisted between the napkin and the
attainment of the nut, rushed across his mind, and he
availed himself of it : and precisely by the same process
of understanding he made use of the tile, to lay over
the soft earth. When an old greyhound that has been
accustomed to follow the hare fairly, begins to run cun-
ning, or when two greyhounds are in pursuit of a hare,
and one of them runs to a gap in the hedge, which it
had known before, and through which it is probable the
hare will pass, — in what does this latter greyhound
differ, in his way of acting and reasoning, from an old
sportsman, who is too lazy to follow the hounds outright,
and cuts across to save time and labor ? I have reason
to believe that somebody is lost in a snow storm ; — I
mark the track of his feet, distinguishing it carefully
from other footsteps ; all of a sudden I lose the track, —
what does common sense point out to me to do ? I go
all round in a circle, at the very spot where the signs
were first deficient, to see if I can recover the thread of
my pursuit. A little boy, whom I have with me, is per-
petually mistaking every mark he sees for the true one,
and calling out he has found it ; I pay no sort of atten-
tion to what he says, for I know that he is young and
volatile, and 1 continue the search myself; but if I hear
the voice of a trusty servant at a distance, exclaiming

246 LECTURE XVIII.

that he has rediscovered the track, I immediately repair
to the spot, with a strong belief that it will turn out to
be the fact : and it is so. Now, during all this time,
have I not been exercising my reasoning ? have I not
been applying my previous experience to the new cases
before me ? and could not the reasons upon which I
have acted, be drawn out into so many syllogisms ?
And do not hounds in the pursuit of their game, con-
duct themselves in a manner similar to this ? They go
on straightforward as far as the scent lasts ; when it
fails them, they cast round in a circle to recover it. The
old hounds pay not the smallest attention to the yelping
of the young ones : they know they are not to be trusted ;
but the moment an old experienced hound gives tongue,
the whole pack resort to him, without the least hesita-
tion, and consider their object as gained. I confess I
am quite at a loss to decide what difference there is be-
tween the faculties employed on both these occasions.
A hunted stag will return again upon the line it has
been running, then give three or four strong bounds,
scarcely touching the ground, and make off in a lateral
direction : sometimes he will run in among other deer
and cattle, and endeavor to elude the sagacity of the
dogs by these means ; at other times he will hide himself
up to the nose in reeds and water. All this implies a
vast deal of previous observation, a fund of experience,
and a ready application of that experience to new cases.
The artifices of a gentleman pursued by bailiffs, and the
artifices of an animal pursued for his life, are the same
thing, — call them by what name you please. Of all
animals, the most surprising stories are told of the docility
of elephants. The black people, who have the care of
them, often go away, leaving them chained to a stake,
and place near them their young children, as if under
their care : the elephant allows the little creatures to
crawl as far as its trunk can reach, and then gently takes
the young master up, and places him more within his own
control. Every one knows the old story of the tailor
and the elephant, which, if it be not true, at least shows
the opinion the Orientals, who know the animal well,
entertain of his sagacity. An eastern tailor to the court

ON THE FACULTIES OF BEASTS. 247

was making a magnificent doublet for a bashaw of nine
tails, and covering it, after the manner of eastern doub-
lets with gold, silver, and every species of metallic magnifi-
cence. As he was busying himself on this momentous
occasion, there passed by, to the pools of water, one of
the royal elephants, about the size of a broad-wheeled
wagon, rich in ivory teeth, and shaking with its ponder-
ous tread, the tailor's shop to its remotest thimble. As
he passed near the window, the elephant happened to
look in ; the tailor lifted up his eyes, perceived the pro-
boscis of the elephant near him, and, being seized with a
fit of facetiousness, pricked the animal with his needle :
the mass of matter immediately retired, stalked away to
the pool, filled his trunk full of muddy water, and, return-
ing to the shop, overwhelmed the artisan and his doublet
with the dirty effects of his vengeance. Instances of
memory in animals, and of the most tenacious memory,
are endless. If an animal obey the voice of his master,
or love the hand that feeds him, it is association. In
what way can a sheep or a dog find his way back thirty
or forty miles, over a country he has passed but once,
through by-paths and over extensive downs ? What is
all this but the most acute attention, and the most
accurate memory ? A dog, to do this, must have paid
the most accurate attention to cart-ruts, little hillocks,
single shrubs, and the minutest marks which guide him
in his course. Almost all animals are very diligent ob-
servers of places, and know them by a thousand criteria
which we do not observe, and which, from the extent of
horizon we comprehend in our view, we have no occa-
sion to observe. It must be from that same habit of
observation, common to all animals, and from the same
necessity they are under of observing attentively, that
American Indians are able to find their way across the
woods, in the very surprising manner mentioned by Mr.
Weld, in his very sensible, judicious, and impartial
Travels in America. They will penetrate through a
wood of many leagues in extent, which they have not
passed for twenty years before, without deviating a single
step from their former track : the fact is, they are com-
pelled (like animals), from a consideration of their

248 LECTURE XVIII.

safety, to observe with the closest attention, — and
whatever is observed closely, is remembered tenaciously.
Animals profit by experience, as we do, — not so much,
but in the same manner. All old animals are much
more cunning, with much more difficulty caught in
traps, and hunted with dogs, than young animals : an
old wolf, or an old fox, will walk round a trap twenty
times, examining every circumstance with the utmost
attention : and those who deceive them, are only enabled
to do so by every possible care and circumspection.
They have abstract ideas, exactly as we have abstract
ideas. When a huntsman whips a hare out of its form,
he sees only an individual object ; but he knows that
this individual animal has qualities and properties com-
mon to a whole species ; and the greyhound that pur-
sues that particular hare, — be it little or be it big, —
knows that it has properties common to all other ani-
mals, — that it is quick, cunning, and good to eat : in
the same manner, a dog that lives in a town, meets
sometimes a man in a yellow coat, sometimes in a green
one, sometimes a tall man, sometimes a short man, but
he knows they are all men ; each man excites in him
nearly the same idea from the qualities he possesses, in
common with all other men, and in spite of his own in-
dividual peculiarities. Locke says that animals have no
universal ideas ; that they do not abstract : but, then,
Locke was mistaken in supposing that men had uni-
versal ideas. Bishop Berkeley has demonstrated, — and
his demonstration is universally agreed to by every one,
— that it is nonsense to talk about universal ideas ; that
there are no such things as universal ideas ; and that
what we have called universal ideas are nothing but par-
ticular ones, accompanied with the notion that they are
common to a species.

Then, again, for the affections of animals. They
grieve, rejoice, play, are ennuied, as we are ; feel anger,
as we do ; parental affection, and personal attachment.
There are stories in Smellie's "Natural Philosophy,"
and well authenticated, of a very serious attachment
that subsisted between a dunghill-cock and a horse, who
happened to be kept in the same paddock together.

UN THE FACULTIES OF BEASTS. 249

Every body has seen the lapdog and the lioness in the
Tower ; and I believe a lamb also has been kept in the
Tower with the lions. In short, every body has innu-
merable stories to tell of the affections of animals ; and
the difficulty is, rather to abridge than to multiply them.
Now, if I am right in stating that animals have the
same sort of faculties as man, the question immediately
occurs of the origin of that distinction and superiority
which man has gained over all other animated beings.
One cause of that superiority I conceive to be, his lon-
gevity : without it, that accumulation of experience in
action, and of knowledge in speculation, could not have
existed ; and though man would still have been the first
of all animals, the difference between him and others
would have been less considerable than it now is. The
w T isdom of a man is made up of what he observes, and
what others observe for him ; and of course the sum of
what he can acquire must principally depend upon the
time in which he can acquire it. All that we add to our
knowledge is not an increase, by that exact proportion,
of all we possess ; because we lose some things, as we
gain others ; but upon the whole, while the body and
mind remain healthy, an active man increases in intelli-
gence, and consequently in power. If we lived seven
hundred years instead of seventy, we should write better
epic poems, build better houses, and invent more com-
plicated mechanism, than we do now. I should question
very much if Mr. Milne could build a bridge so well as
a gentleman who had engaged in that occupation for
seven centuries : and if I had had only two hundred
years' experience in lecturing on moral philosophy, I am
well convinced I should do it a little better than I now
do. On the contrary, how diminutive and absurd all
the efforts of man would have been, if the duration of
his life had only been twenty years, and if he had died
of old age just at the period when every human being
begins to suspect that he is the wisest and most extra-
ordinary person that ever did exist ! I think it is Hel-
vetius who says, he is quite certain we only owe our
superiority over the ourang-outangs to the greater length
of life conceded to us ; and that, if our life had been as

T.#

250 LECTURE XVIII.

short as theirs, they would have totally defeated us in
the competition for nuts and ripe blackberries. I can
hardly agree to this extravagant statement ; but I think,
in a life of twenty years the efforts of the human mind
would have been so considerably lowered, that we might
probably have thought Helvetius a good philosopher,
and admired his skeptical absurdities as some of the
greatest efforts of the human understanding. Sir Richard
Blackmore would have been our greatest poet ; our wit
would have been Dutch ; our faith, French ; the Hotten-
tots would have given us the model for manners, and the
Turks for government ; and we might probably have
been such miserable reasoners respecting the sacred
truths of religion, that we should have thought they
wanted the support of a puny and childish jealousy of
the poor beasts that perish. His gregarious nature is
another cause of man's superiority over all other animals.
A lion lies under a hole in a rock ; and if any other lion
happen to pass by, they fight. Now, whoever gets a
habit of lying under a hole in a rock, and fighting with
every gentleman who passes near him, can not possibly
make any progress. Every man's understanding and
acquirements, how great and extensive soever they may
appear, are made up from the contributions of his friends
and companions. You spend your morning in learning
from Hume what happened at particular periods of your
own history : you dine where some man tells you what
he has observed in the East Indies, and another dis-
courses of brown sugar and Jamaica. It is from these
perpetual rills of knowledge, that you refresh yourself,
and become strong and healthy as you are. If lions
would consort together, and growl out the observations
they have made, about killing sheep and shepherds, the
most likely places for catching a calf grazing, and so
forth, they could not fail to improve ; because they would
be actuated by such a wide range of observation, and
operating by the joint force of so many minds. It may
be said, that the gregarious spirit in man, may proceed
from his wisdom ; and not his wisdom from his gre-
garious spirit. This I should doubt. It appears to be
an original principle in some animals, and not in others ;

ON THE FACULTIES OF BEASTS. 251

and is a quality given to some to better their condition,
as swiftness or strength is given to others. The tiger
lives alone, — bulls and cows do not ; yet, a tiger is as
wise an animal as a bull. A wild boar lives with the
herd till he comes of age, which he does at three years,
and then quits the herd and lives alone. There is a
solitary species of bee, and there is a gregarious bee.
Whether an animal should herd or not, seems to be as
much a provision of nature, as whether it should crawl,
creep, or fly.

A third method, in which man gains the dominion
over other animals, is by the structure of his body, and
the mechanism of his hands. Suppose, with all our
understanding, it had pleased Providence to make us like
lobsters, or to imprison us in shells like crayfish, I very
much question if the monkeys would not have converted
us into sauce ; nor can I conceive any possible method,
by which such a fate could have been averted. Suppose
man, with the same faculties, the same body, and the
hands and feet of an ox, — what then w r ould have been
his fate ? Anaxagoras is represented by ancient authors
as maintaining that man owes all his superiority in wis-
dom and knowledge to the structure of his hands. That
hands will not do every thing, is very plain, because
monkeys have hands, and make no use of them for any
purpose of ameliorating their condition. All that can
be said of the hand is, that it is a very exquisite tool, —
but a tool does not make an artist; it is a means by
which an artist carries his conceptions into execution, —
but his conceptions do not depend upon his tools. There
can be no doubt, however, but that the destiny of man,
and the extent of his faculties have been very consider-
ably influenced by this mechanism of the hand. The
first thing to be done in the progress of civilization, is to
mitigate the physical inconveniences by which man is
surrounded : this can not be done without smelting the
metals, breaking up the surface of the earth, and doing
innumerable things, which, without as perfect an organ
as the hand, could not be done. Without the hand, man
would not have fused metals ; without the fusion of
metals, he would never have got very far above the

252 LECTURE XVIII.

pressure of immediate want ; and consequently his facul-
ties would not have been what they now are. Neither is
it simply by securing to him the free and uninterrupted
exercise of his faculties, that the instruments — his hands
- — have invented, have improved his understanding ; but
those instruments have opened to his observation new
and unlimited fields of knowledge, which have re-excited
those faculties by the strongest stimulus of curiosity, and
improved them by exercise. Accident, perhaps, first
gave the notion of glass : there was some talent in ascer-
taining the precise circumstances upon which the first
observed appearances depended ; but to what infinite
talent has this discovery contributed ! how much curi-
osity has it excited! what powerful understandings it
has called into action ! how it has widened the materials
of human knowledge, and guided the mind of man to
the most abstruse speculations !

Then, again, man owes something to his size and
strength. If he had been only tw r o feet high, he could
not possibly have subdued the earth, and roasted and
boiled animated nature in the way he now does. Some-
thing he owes also to the number and perfection of his
senses ; because, though there may be some one animal
which excels him in each particular sense, there are few
who enjoy all their senses in such perfection.

This is all very well : these (which I have stated) are
clearly conspiring causes ; but they will not do alone, as
the enemies to man have absurdly contended. The ape
has hands as good, and stature as great, and is as fond of
society, and his senses are as acute as ours ; and yet, the
ape has certainly hitherto taken no very surprising part
in the political revolutions of the earth, — done very little
for science, — and seems, with the exception of a few
atheists, and metaphysicians, to be held in very little
honor by any body. The fact seems to be, that though
almost every quality of mind we possess, can be traced
in some trifling degree in brutes, yet that degree, com-
pared with the extent in which the same quality is ob-
servable in man, is very low and inconsiderable. For
instance, we can not say that animals are devoid of cu-
riosity, but they have a very slight degree of curiosity :

ON THE FACULTIES OF BEASTS. 253

they imitate, but they imitate very slightly in comparison
with men ; they can not imitate any thing very difficult ;
and many of them hardly imitate at all : they abstract,
but they can not make such compound abstractions as
men do ; they have no such compounded abstractions as
city, prudence, fortitude, parliament, and justice : they
reason, but their reasonings are very short and very ob-
vious : they invent, but their inventions are extremely
easy, and not above the reach of a human idiot. The
story I quoted from Bailly, about the ape and the wal-
nuts, is one of the most extraordinary I ever read ; but
what a wretched limit of intellect does it imply, to be
cited as an instance of extraordinary sagacity !

But all the faculties which every animal possesses, are
given him for the mere purposes of existence. When
his life is endangered, when his young are to be secured,
and his prey entrapped, he develops the limited re-
sources of his nature ; for every thing else he has no
talents at all; nor has any animal ever betrayed the
slightest disposition to knowledge, — except as knowledge
gratified immediately his hunger, or as would immediate-
ly have secured his life. Whereas, man is so far from
being influenced only by the moment which is passing
over his head, that he looks back to centuries past for
the guide of his actions, and to centuries to come for
their motive. In fact, nothing can be more weak, and
mistaken than to suppose that the doctrine of the immor-
tality of the soul, depends upon making brutes mere
machines, or denying to them the mere outlines of our
faculties. To talk of God being the soul of brutes, is the
worst and most profane degradation of divine power.
To suppose that He who regulates the rolling of the
planets, and the return of seasons, by general laws, inter-
feres, by a special act of his power, to make a bird fly,
and an insect flutter, — to suppose that a gaudy moth
can not expand its wings to the breeze, or a lark unfold
its plumage to the sun, without the special mandate of
that God who fixes incipient passions in the human
heart, and leaves them to produce a Borgia to scourge
mankind, or a Newton to instruct them, — is not piety,
or science, but a most pernicious substitution of degrad-

254 LECTURE XVIII.

ing conjectures, from an ignorant apprehension of the
consequences of admitting plain facts. In the name of
common sense, what have men to fear from allowing to
beasts their miserable and contemptible pittance of facul-
ties ? What can those men have read of the immortality
of the soul ? what can they think of the strength of
those arguments on which it is founded, if they believe
it requires the aid of such contemptible and boyish jeal-
ousy of the lower order of beings ? what must they feel
within themselves, to conceive such arguments ? what
notion must they communicate to others of the fullness,
and sufficiency, and strength of those powers, when they
stand quibbling and trembling at every faint semblance
of reason, which a beast exhibits in searching for water
and flesh, and eluding the spear of the hunter? The
enemies of the soul's immortality I do not fear ; I know
how often they have been vanquished before ; and I am
quite sure that they will be overthrown again with a
mighty overthrow, as often as they do appear. But I
confess I have some considerable dread of the indiscreet
friends of religion. I tremble at that respectable imbe-
cility which shuffles away the plainest truths, and thinks
the strongest of all causes wants the weakest of all aids.
I shudder at the consequences of fixing the great proofs
of religion upon any other basis, than that of the widest
investigation, and most honest statement of facts. I al-
low such nervous and timid friends to religion to be the
best and most pious of men ; but a bad defender of re-
ligion is so much the most pernicious person in the whole
community, that I most humbly hope such friends will
evince their zeal for religion, by ceasing to defend it ;
and remember that not every man is qualified to be the
advocate of a cause in which the mediocrity of his un-
derstanding may possibly compromise the dearest and
most affecting interests of society. What have the
shadow and mockery of faculties, given to beasts, to do
with the immortality of the soul ? Have beasts any gen-
eral fear of annihilation ? have they any love of fame ?
do their small degrees of faculties ever give them any
feelings of this nature? are their minds perpetually es-
caping into futurity ? have they any love of posthumous

ON THE FACULTIES OF BEASTS. 255

fame ? have they any knowledge of God ? have they ever
reached, in their conceptions, the slightest traces of a
hereafter? can they form the notion of duty and ac-
countability ? is it any violation of any one of the moral
attributes of the Deity, to suppose that they go back to
their dust, and that we do not ? Is it no reason to say,
that, because they partake in the slightest degree of our
nature, they are entitled to all the privileges of our na-
ture ; — because, upon that principle, if we partake of the
nature of any higher order of spirits, we ought to be
them, and not ourselves ; and they ought to be some
higher order still, and so on. And if it be inconsistent
to suppose a difference in duration, then also it is to sup-
pose a difference in degree, of mind ; and then every
human being has a right to complain that he is not a
Newton.

To conclude : Such truths want not such aids. The
weakest and the most absurd arguments ever used
against religion, have been the attempts to compare
brutes with men ; and the weakest answer to these
arguments have been, the jealousies which men have
exhibited of brutes. As facts are fairly stated, and
boldly brought forward, the more all investigation goes
to establish the ancient opinion of man, before it was
confirmed by revealed religion, — that brutes are of this
world only ; that man is imprisoned here only for a
season, — to take a better or a worse hereafter, as he
deserves it. This old truth is the fountain of all good-
ness, and justice, and kindness among men : may we all
feel it intimately, obey it perpetually, and profit by it
eternally !

LECTURE XIX.

ON THE CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING.— PART II.

I concluded my last course with a Lecture upon the
Conduct of the Understanding* (which I intended, as
I do this, merely for the instruction of young people) ;
but as such a subject could not, of course, be exhausted
in any single discussion, I reserved the conclusion of it
for the present period.

As it does not appear to me very material to observe
any order with respect to this subject, I shall merely
state the observations it suggests, as they occur to my
mind, without attempting to arrange them.

It would be a very curious question to agitate, how far
understanding is transmitted from parent to child ; and
within what limits it can be improved by culture :
whether all men are born equal, with respect to their
understanding ; or, whether there is an original diversity
antecedent to all imitation and instruction. The analogy
of animals is in favor of the transmissibility of mind.
Some ill-tempered horses constantly breed ill-tempered
colts ; and the foal never has seen the sire, — therefore,
in this, there can be no imitation. If the eggs of a wild
duck are hatched under a tame duck, the young brood
will be much wilder than any common brood of poultry ;
if they are kept all their lives in a farm-yard, and treated
kindly, and fed well, their eggs hatched under another
bird produce a much tamer race. What is the difference
of suspicion and fear observable in the two broods, but
a direct transmission of mind, without the possible
intervention of any imitation or teaching ? However,

* Page 95.

ON THE CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING. 257

whether mind be transmitted, or whether it be affected
afterward by the earliest circumstances of our lives,
certainly the fact is, that at the very earliest periods of
our existence, the strongest differences are observable
between one individual and another ; which difference
no subsequent art and attention can ever after destroy.

One of the rarest sort of understandings we meet with
in the world, among the numerous diversities which are
produced, is an understanding fairly and impartially
open to the reception of truth, coming in any shape, and
from any quarter ; and it will be of considerable use, in
a discussion on the conduct of the understanding, to
consider what those causes are, which render this sort
of understanding so very rare. One of these causes,
and the first I shall mention, is indolence. Repose is
agreeable to the human mind ; and decision is repose.
A man has made up his opinions ; he does not choose to
be disturbed ; and he is much more thankful to the man
who confirms him in his errors, and leaves him alone,
than he is to the man who refutes him, or who instructs
him at the expense of his tranquillity. Again : our
vanity is compromised by our opinions ; we have ex-
pressed them, and they must be maintained : the object
is, not to know the truth, but to avoid the shame of
appearing to have been ignorant of it.

Words are an amazing barrier to the reception of
truth. It is a most inestimable habit in the conduct of
the understanding, before men put their solemn sanction
to any opinion, — before war, before peace, before expa-
triation, and all the great events of life, — that men
should ask themselves whether or not the words by
which their conduct has been influenced, have really
any meaning ; and if so, whether they have the meaning,
in such instances, intended to be affixed to them. Defini-
tion of words has been commonly called a mere exercise
of grammarians ; but when we come to consider the
innumerable murders, proscriptions, massacres, and tor-
tures, which men have inflicted on each other from
mistaking the meaning of words, the exercise of defini-
tion certainly begins to assume rather a more dignified
aspect.

258 LECTURE XIX.

Then comes association as another disturber. A man
has heard such opinions very often ; or, " I have heard
them when I was young ; and therefore, they must be
ight ;" — " I hate all Dissenters," or " all Roman Cath-
lics ;" — or, " I can not endure Americans ;" — and
such other shocking opinions, upon which men act all
their lives, — and act very badly, and furiously, and very
ignorantly, merely because such opinions have been
instilled into their earliest infancy, and because they
have never had the power of separating two ideas which
mere accident first associated together. The cure for
this confined and narrow species of understanding, is to
see many things and many men ; to taste of the sweet-
ness of truth in science, and to cultivate a love of it ; to
have the words, liberality, candor, knowledge, often in
your mouth, and at length they will get into your heart ;
to ask the reason of things, and find the meaning of
words ; to hear patiently any one who confirms what
you thought before, or who refutes it ; to propose to
yourself in life the same object, as the law proposes in
the examination of evidence, — to get at the truth, and
nothing but the truth. Without study, no man can ever
do any thing with his understanding. But in spite of all
that has been said about the sweets of study, it is a sort
of luxury, like the taste for olives and coffee — not natural,
very hard to be acquired, and very easily lost. Very
few persons begin to study from the love of knowledge,
or the desire of doing good ; though these are the motives
with which they ought to begin : but they begin from
the shame of inferiority, and better motives come after-
ward.

One of the best methods of rendering study agreeable
is to live with able men, and to suffer all those pangs
of inferiority, which the want of knowledge always in-
flicts. Nothing short of some such powerful motive,
can drive a young person, in the full possession of health
and bodily activity, to such an unnatural and such an
unobvious mode of passing his life as study. But this is
the way that intellectual greatness often begins. The
trophies of Miltiades drive away sleep. A young man
sees the honor in which knowledge is held by his fellow-

ON THE CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING. 259

creatures ; and he surrenders every present gratification,
that he may gain them. The honor in which living
genius is held, the trophies by which it is adorned after
life, it receives and enjoys from the feelings of men, — ■
not from their sense of duty : but men never obey this
feeling, without discharging the first of all duties ; with-
out securing the rise and growth of genius, and increas-
ing the dignity of our nature, by enlarging the dominion
of mind. No eminent man was ever yet rewarded in
vain ; no breath of praise was ever idly lavished upon
him ; it has never yet been idle and foolish to rear up
splendid monuments to his name: the rumor of these
things impels young minds to the noblest exertions, cre-
ates in them an empire over present passions, inures
them to the severest toils, determines them to live only
for the use of others, and leave a great and lasting me-
morial behind them.

Beside the shame of inferiority, and the love of repu-
tation, curiosity is a passion very favorable to the love
of study ; and a passion very susceptible of increase by
cultivation. Sound travels so many feet in a second ;
and light travels so many feet in a second. Nothing
more probable : but you do not care how light and sound
travel. Very likely : but make yourself care ; get up,
shake yourself well, pretend to care, make believe to care,
and very soon you will care, and care so much, that you
will sit for hours thinking about light and sound, and be
extremely angry with any one who interrupts you in
your pursuits ; and tolerate no other conversation but
about light and sound ; and catch yourself plaguing
every body to death who approaches you, with the dis-
cussion of these subjects. I am sure that a man ought
to read as he would grasp a nettle: — do it lightly, and
you get molested ; grasp it with all your strength, and
you feel none of its asperities. There is nothing so hor-
rible as languid study ; when you sit looking at the
clock, wishing the time was over, or that somebody
would call on you and put you out of your misery. The
only way to read with any efficacy, is to read so heartily,
that dinner-time comes two hours before you expect it.
To sit with your Livy before you, and hear the geese

260 LECTURE XIX.

cackling that saved the capitol ; and to see with your
own eyes the Carthaginian sutlers gathering up the
rings of the Roman knights after the battle of Cannae,
and heaping them into bushels ; and to be so intimately
present at the actions you are reading of, that when any-
body knocks at the door, it will take you two or three
seconds to determine whether you are in your own study,
or in the plains of Lombardy, looking at Hannibal's
weather-beaten face, and admiring the splendor of his
single eye; — this is the only kind of study which is not
tiresome ; and almost the only kind which is not useless :
this is the knowledge which gets into the system, and
which a man carries about and uses like his limbs, with-
out perceiving that it is extraneous, weighty, or incon-
venient.

To study successfully, the body must be healthy, the
mind at ease, and time managed with great economy.
Persons who study many hours in the day, should, per-
haps, have two separate pursuits going on at the same
time, — one for one part of the day, and the other for the
other ; and these of as opposite a nature as possible, —
as Euclid and Ariosto ; Locke and Homer ; Hartley on
Man, and Voyages round the Globe ; that the mind may
be refreshed by change, and all the bad effects of lassi-
tude avoided. There is one piece of advice, in a life
of study, which I think no one will object to ; and that
is, every now and then to be completely idle, — to do
nothing at all : indeed, this part of a life of study is com-
monly considered as so decidedly superior to the rest,
that it has almost obtained an exclusive preference over
those other parts of the system, with which I wish to see
it connected.

It has often been asked whether a man should study
at stated intervals, or as the fit seizes him, and as he
finds himself disposed to study. To this I answer, that
where a man can trust himself, rules are superfluous.
If his inclinations lead him to a fair share of exertion, he
had much better trust to his inclinations alone ; where
they do not, they must be controlled by rules. It is just
the same with sleep ; and with every thing else. Sleep
as much as you please, if your inclination lead you only

ON THE CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING. 261

to sleep as much as is convenient ; if not, make rules.
The system in every thing ought to be, — do as you please
— so long as you please to do what is right. Upon these
principles, every man must see how far he may trust to
his inclinations, before he takes away their natural lib-
erty. I confess, however, it has never fallen to my lot
to see many persons who could be trusted ; and the
method, I believe, in which most great men have gone
to work, is by regular and systematic industry.

A little hard thinking will supply the place of a great
deal of reading ; and an hour or two spent in this man-
ner sometimes lead you to conclusions, which it would
require a volume to establish. The mind advances in its
train of thought, as a restive colt proceeds on the road
in which you wish to guide him ; he is always running
to one side or the other, and deviating from the proper
path, to which it is your affair to bring him back. I
have asked several men what passes in their minds when
they are thinking ; and I never could find any man who
could think for two minutes together. Every body has
seemed to admit that it was a perpetual deviation from a
particular path, and a perpetual return to it ; which, im-
perfect as the operation is, is the only method in which
we can operate with our minds to carry on any process
of thought. It takes some time to throw the mind into
an attitude of thought, or into any attitude ; though the
power of doing this, and, in general, of thinking, is amaz-
ingly increased by habit. We acquire, at length, a
greater command over our associations, and are better
enabled to pursue one object, unmoved by all the other
thoughts which cross it in every direction.

One of the best modes of improving in the art of
thinking, is, to think over some subject, before you read
upon it ; and then to observe, after what manner it has
occurred to the mind of some great master. You will
then observe whether you have been too rash or too
timid ; what you have omitted, and in what you have
exceeded ; and by this process you will insensibly catch
a great manner of viewing a question. It is right in
study, not only to think when any extraordinary inci-
dent provokes you to think, but from time to time to

262 LECTURE XIX.

review what has passed ; to dwell upon it, and to see
what trains of thought voluntarily present themselves
to your mind. It is a most superior habit of some
minds, to refer all the particular truths which strike
them, to other truths more general : so that their knowl-
edge is beautifully methodized : and the general truth
at any time suggests all the particular exemplifications ;
or any particular exemplification, at once leads to the
general truth. This kind of understanding has an im-
mense and decided superiority over those confused heads
in which one fact is piled upon another, without the
least attempt at classification and arrangement. Some
men always read with a pen in their hand, and commit
to paper any new thought which strikes them ; others
trust to chance for its reappearance. Which of these is
the best method in the conduct of the understanding,
must, I should suppose, depend a great deal upon the
particular understanding in question. Some men can
do nothing without preparation ; others, little with it :
some are fountains, some reservoirs. My very humble
and limited experience goes to convince me, that it is a
very useless practice ; that men seldom read again what
they have committed to paper, nor remember what they
have so committed one iota the better for their additional
trouble : on the contrary, I believe it has a direct ten-
dency to destroy the promptitude and tenacity of
memory, by diminishing the vigor of present attention,
and seducing the mind to depend upon future reference :
at least, such is the effect I have uniformly found it to
produce upon myself; and the same remark has been
frequently made to me by other persons, of their own
habits of study. I am by no means contending against
the utility and expediency of writing ; on the contrary,
I am convinced there can be no very great accuracy of
mind without it. I am only animadverting upon that
exaggerated use of it, which disunites the mind from the
body ; renders the understanding no longer portable, but
leaves a man's wit and talents neatly written out in his
commonplace book, and safely locked up in the bottom
drawer of his bureau. This is the abuse of writing.
The use of it, I presume, is, to give perspicuity and ac-

ON THE CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING. 263

curacy : to fix a habitation for, and to confer a name
upon, our ideas, so that they may be considered and re-
considered themselves, and in their arrangement. Every
man is extremely liable to be deceived in his reflections
till he has habituated himself to putting his thoughts upon
paper, and perceived from such a process, how often
propositions that appeared before such development to
be almost demonstrable, have vanished into nonsense
when a clearer light has been thrown upon them. I
should presume, also, that much writing must teach a
good order and method in the disposition of our reason-
ings ; because the connection of any one part with the
whole, will be made so much more evident than it can
be before it is put into visible signs. Writing, also, must
teach a much more accurate use of language. In con-
versation, any language almost will do ; that is, great
indulgence is extended to the language of talkers, because
a talker is at hand to explain himself, and his looks and
gestures are a sort of comment upon his words, and help
to interpret them : but as a writer has no such auxiliary
language to communicate his ideas, and no power of re-
explaining them when once clothed in language, he has
nothing to depend upon but a steady and careful use of
terms.

The advantage conversation has over all the other
modes of improving the mind, is, that it is more natural
and more interesting. A book has no eyes, and ears,
and feelings ; the best are apt every now and then to
become a little languid : whereas a living book walks
about, and varies his conversation and manner, and pre-
vents you from going to sleep. There is certainly a
great evil in this, as well as a good ; for the interest be-
tween a man and his living folio, becomes sometimes a
little too keen, and in the competition for victory they
become a little too animated toward, and sometimes ex-
asperated against, each other : whereas a man and his
book generally keep the peace with tolerable success ;
and if they disagree, the man shuts his book, and tosses
it into a corner of the room, which it might not be quite
so safe or easy to do with a living folio. It is an incon-
venience in a book, that you can not ask questions ; there

264 LECTURE XIX.

is no explanation : and a man is less guarded in conver-
sation than in a book, and tells you with more honesty
the little niceties and exceptions of his opinions ; whereas
in a book, as his opinions are canvassed where they can
not be explained and defended, he often overstates a
point for fear of being misunderstood ; but then, on the
contrary, almost every man talks a great deal better in
his books, with more sense, more information, and more
reflection, than he can possibly do in his conversation,
because he has more time.

There are few good listeners in the world who make
all the use that they might make, of the understandings
of others, in the conduct of their own. The use made
of this great instrument of conversation is the display of
superiority, not the gaining of those materials on which
superiority may rightfully and justly be founded. Every
man takes a different view of a question as he is influ-
enced by constitution, circumstances, age, and a thou-
sand other peculiarities ; and no individual ingenuity can
sift and examine a subject with as much variety and
success, as the minds of many men, put in motion by
many causes, and affected by an endless variety of acci-
dents. Nothing, in my humble opinion, would bring an
understanding so forward, as this habit of ascertaining
and weighing the opinions of others ; — a point in which
almost all men of abilities are deficient ; whose first im-
pulse, if they are young, is too often to contradict ; or,
if the manners of the world have cured them of that, to
listen only with attentive ears, but with most obdurate
and unconquerable entrails. I may be very wrong, and
probably am so, but, in the whole course of my life, I do
not know that I ever saw a man of considerable under-
standing respect the understandings of others as much as
he might have done for his own improvement, and as it
w r as just that he should do.

I touched a little, in my last Lecture, upon that habit
of contradicting, into which young men, — and young
men of ability in particular, — are apt to fall ; and which
is a habit extremely injurious to the powers of the under-
standing. I would recommend to such young men, an
intellectual regimen, of which I myself, in an earlier

UN THE CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING. 265

period of life, have felt the advantage : and that is, to
assent to the two first propositions that they hear every
day ; and not only to assent to them, but, if they can, to
improve and embellish them ; and to make the speaker
a little more in love with his own opinion than he was
before. When they have a little got over the bitterness
of assenting, they may then gradually increase the num-
ber of assents, and so go on as their constitution will
bear it; and I have little doubt that, in time, this will
effect a complete and perfect cure.

It is a great thing tow r ard making right judgments, if
a man know what allowance to make for himself; and
what discount should habitually be given to his opinions,
according as he is old or young, French or English,
clergyman or layman, rich or poor, torpid or fiery,
healthy or ill, sorrowful or gay. All these various cir-
cumstances are perpetually communicating to the objects
about them, a color which is not their true color : whereas,
wisdom is of no age, nation, profession, or temperament ;
and is neither sorrowful nor sad. A man must have some
particular qualities, and be affected by some particular
circumstances ; but the object is, to discover what they
are, and habitually to allow for them.

There is one circumstance I would preach up, morn-
ing, noon, and night, to young persons, for the manage-
ment of their understanding. Whatever you are from
nature, keep to it : never desert your own line of talent.
If Providence only intended you to write posies for rings,
or mottoes for twelfth-cakes, keep to posies and mottoes :
a good motto for a twelfth-cake is more respectable than
a villainous epic poem in twelve books. Be what nature
intended you for, and you will succeed ; be any thing
else, and you will be ten thousand times worse than
nothing.

If black and white men live together, the consequence
is, that, unless great care be taken, they quarrel and
fight. There is nearly as strong a disposition in men of
opposite minds to despise each other. A grave man
can not conceive what is the use of a wit in society ; a
person who takes a strong common-sense view of a sub-
ject, is for pushing out by the head and shoulders an

266 LECTURE XIX.

ingenious theorist, who catches at the lightest and faint-
est analogies ; and another man, who scents the ridic-
ulous from afar, will hold no commerce with him who
tastes exquisitely the fine feelings of the heart, and is
alive to nothing else : whereas talent is talent, and mind
is mind, in all its branches ! Wit gives to life one of its
best flavors ; common sense leads to immediate action,
and gives society its daily motion ; large and compre-
hensive views, its annual rotation ; ridicule chastises
folly and impudence, and keeps men in their proper
sphere ; subtilty seizes hold of the fine threads of truth ;
analogy darts away to the most sublime discoveries ;
feeling paints all the exquisite passions of man's soul,
and rewards him by a thousand inward visitations for
the sorrows that come from without. God made it all !
It is all good ! We must despise no sort of talent :
they all have their separate duties and uses ; all, the
happiness of man for their object : they all improve,
exalt, and gladden life.

Caution, though it must be considered as something
very different from talent, is no mean aid to every spe-
cies of talent. As some men are so skillful in economy,
that they will do as much with a hundred pounds as an-
other will do with two, so there is a species of men, who
have a wonderful management of their understandings,
and will make as great a show, and enjoy as much con-
sideration, with a certain quantity of understanding, as
others will do with the double of their portion : and this
by watching times and persons ; by taking strong posi-
tions, and never fighting but from the vantage-ground,
and with great disparity of numbers ; in short, by risking
nothing, and by a perpetual and systematic attention to
the security of reputation. Such rigid economy, — by
laying out every shilling at compound interest, — very
often accumulates a large stock of fame, where the ori-
ginal capital has been very inconsiderable ; and, of
course, may command any degree of opulence, where it
sets out from great beginnings, and is united with real
genius. For the want of this caution, there is an habitual
levity sometimes fixed upon the minds of able men, and
a certain manner of viewing and discussing all questions

ON THE CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING. 267

in a frivolous, mocking manner, as if they had looked
through all human knowledge, and found in it nothing
but what they could easily master, and were entitled to
despise. Of all mistakes the greatest, to live and to think
life of no consequence ; to fritter away the powers of
the understanding, merely to make others believe that
you possess them in a more eminent degree ; and gradu-
ally to diminish your interest in human affairs, from an
affected air of superiority, to which neither yourself nor
any human being can possibly be entitled. It is a beau-
tiful mark of a healthy and right understanding, when a
man is serious and attentive to all great questions ; when
you observe him, with modesty and attention, adding
gradually to his conviction and knowledge on such
topics ; not repulsed by his own previous mistakes, not
disgusted by the mistakes of others, but in spite of vio-
lence and error, believing that there is, somewhere or
other, moderation and truth, — and that to seek that
truth with diligence, with seriousness, and with con-
stancy, is one of the highest and best objects for which
a man can live.

Some men get early disgusted with the task of im-
provement, and the cultivation of the mind, from some
excesses which they have committed, and mistakes into
which they have been betrayed, at the beginning of life.
They abuse the whole art of navigation because they
have stuck upon a shoal ; whereas, the business is, to
refit, careen, and set out a second time. The naviga-
tion is very difficult; few of us get through it at first,
without some rubs and losses, — which the world are al-
ways ready enough to forgive, where they are honestly
confessed, and diligently repaired. It would, indeed, be
a piteous case, if a young man were pinioned down
through life to the first nonsense he happens to write or
talk ; and the world are, to do them justice, sufficiently
ready to release them from such obligation : but what
they do not forgive is, that juvenile enthusiasm and error,
which ends in mature profligacy ; which begins with
mistaking what is right, and ends with denying that
there is any thing right at all ; which leaps from partial
confidence to universal skepticism ; w r hich says, " there

268 LECTURE XIX.

is no such thing as true religion and rational liberty, be-
cause I have been a furious zealot, or a seditious dema-
gogue." Such men should be taught that wickedness is
never an atonement for mistake ; and they should be
held out as a lesson to the young, that unless they are
content to form their opinions modestly, they will too
often be induced to abandon them entirely.

There is something extremely fascinating in quick-
ness ; and most men are desirous of appearing quick.
The great rule for becoming so, is, by not attempting to
appear quicker than you really are ; by resolving to
understand yourself and others, and to know what you
mean, and what they mean, before you speak or answer.
Every man must submit to be slow before he is quick ;
and insignificant before he is important. The too early
struggle against the pain of obscurity, corrupts no small
share of understandings. Well and happily has that
man conducted his understanding, who has learned to
derive from the exercise of it, regular occupation and
rational delight ; who, after having overcome the first
pain of application, and acquired a habit of looking in-
wardly upon his own mind, perceives that every day is
multiplying the relations, confirming the accuracy, and
augmenting the number of his ideas ; who feels that he
is rising in the scale of intellectual beings, gathering new
strength with every new difficulty which he subdues, and
enjoying to-day as his pleasure, that which yesterday
he labored at as his toil. There are many consolations
in the mind of such a man, which no common life can
ever afford ; and many enjoyments which it has not to
give! It is not the mere cry of moralists, and the flourish
of rhetoricians ; but it is noble to seek truth, and it is beau-
tiful to find it. It is the ancient feeling of the human
heart, — that knowledge is better than riches ; and it is
deeply and sacredly true ! To mark the course of hu-
man passions as they have flowed on in the ages that
are past ; to see why nations have risen, and why they
have fallen ; to speak of heat, and light, and winds ; to
know what man has discovered in the heavens above,
and in the earth beneath ; to hear the chemist unfold
the marvelous properties that the Creator has locked up

ON THE CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING. 269

in a speck of earth ; to be told that there are worlds so
distant from our sun, that the quickness of light travel-
ing from the world's creation, has never yet reached us;
to wander in the creations of poetry, and grow warm
again, with that eloquence which swayed the democracies
of the old world ; to go up with great reasoners to the
First Cause of all, and to perceive in the midst of all this
dissolution and decay, and cruel separation, that there is
one thing unchangeable, indestructible, and everlasting ;
— it is worth while in the days of our youth to strive
hard for this great discipline ; to pass sleepless nights
for it, to give up to it laborious days ; to spurn for it
present pleasures ; to endure for it afflicting poverty ; to
wade for it through darkness, and sorrow, and contempt,
as the great spirits of the world have done in all ages
and all times.

I appeal to the experience of any man who is in
the habit of exercising his mind vigorously and well,
whether there is not a satisfaction in it, which tells him
he has been acting up to one of the great objects of his
existence ? The end of nature has been answered : his
faculties have done that, which they were created to do,
— not languidly occupied upon trifles, — not enervated
by sensual gratification, but exercised in that toil which
is so congenial to their nature, and so worthy of their
strength. A life of knowledge is not often a life of
injury and crime. Whom does such a man oppress ?
with whose happiness does he interfere ? whom does his
ambition destroy, and whom does his fraud deceive ?
In the pursuit of science he injures no man, and in the
acquisition he does good to all. A man who dedicates
his life to knowledge, becomes habituated to pleasure
which carries with it no reproach : and there is one
security that he will never love that pleasure which is
paid for by anguish of heart, — his pleasures are all cheap,
all dignified, and all innocent ; and, as far as any human
being can expect permanence in this changing scene, he
has secured a happiness which no malignity of fortune
can ever take away, but which must cleave to him while
he lives, — ameliorating every good, and diminishing
every evil, of his existence. With these reflections,

270 LECTURE XIX.

therefore, upon the conduct of the understanding, I close
my Lectures, and with them the Institution, for the
present year : but, before I do so, I wish to say a few
words respecting this latter subject. Another institution
has now risen up in the eastern part of this metropolis ;
and there appears to be a very strong desire to do all
that can be done for the increase of public institutions,
by the foundation of libraries, and by lectures given to
persons of both sexes. I allow myself to be no very
impartial judge in such questions ; but still I must take
the liberty of expressing my astonishment, that sensible
and reflecting men should seriously call in question the
value and importance of such sort of establishments. If
a man come here with his mind thoroughly stored, and
his habits completely formed, and complain that he
learns little or nothing ; his complaint may be very true,
but it applies to all other places of education, as well as
to this. Such a man has got beyond what the aid of
others can do for him ; and must depend upon himself.
Then, again, it is asked what are the great and mighty
effects upon the manners of the age, that such institutions
are to produce ? Great and mighty effects, none ; but
gradual and gentle effects, effects worth producing,
sufficient to justify the expense and trouble bestowed
upon institutions. It is, surely, not unfair to suppose
that, of the numbers resorting to this Institution, some
have felt a zeal for science, which they might not other-
wise have felt ; that this zeal may, in some instances,
have furnished rational amusement to a whole life ; in
others, be productive of deep knowledge, and important
discovery. Is it nothing to inflame young minds ? is it
nothing to please them with science, and to convey to
them the first suspicion, that exquisite pleasure is to be
derived from the mere occupations of the mind ? Is it
nothing to get science generally talked of, though it
may not be profoundly discussed ; and knowledge widely
honored, though it may not be greedily pursued ? I
can not consider that man as a very attentive observer
of human nature, who does not believe, that by all the
conversation and occupation which this Institution has
occasioned, much talent has been awakened, much

ON THE CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING. 271

curiosity for knowledge excited, the dominion of perilous
idleness abridged, and the sum of laudable exertions
increased. It is the greatest of all mistakes, to do
nothing because you can only do little : but there are
men who are always clamoring for immediate and
stupendous effects, and think that virtue and knowledge
are to be increased as a tower or a temple are to be in-
creased, where the growth of its magnitude can be
measured from day to day, and you can not approach it
without perceiving a fresh pillar, or admiring an added
pinnacle. " But, then, such institutions increase the
number of smatterers." To be sure they do ! And is it
not one of the most desirable of all things that they
should be increased ? If you plant 50,000 oaks in five
acres, have you not a better chance of fine trees than
when you only plant 10,000 in one acre ? Has the pro-
duction of eggs ever yet been considered as unfavorable
to the growth of chickens ? or has any reasoner yet
contended, that in any country where boys and girls are
very numerous, men and women must be very scarce ?
Every one, in every art and science, is of course, at first,
nothing but a smatterer. Of these, some can not ad-
vance from stupidity, others will not advance from idle-
ness ; some get in the wrong road from error, some quit
the right from affectation ; a few only reach the destined
point, — but, of course, the number of these last will be
directly and immediately in the proportion of those who
started for the race. In short, I have no manner of
doubt, if these institutions conduct themselves with as
much judgment as they have hitherto done, — if they
provide able and upright men to read lectures in this
place ; and if those men do, without countenancing any
narrow and illiberal opinions, and without lending them-
selves to childish jealousies and groundless alarms,
display at all times an honest zeal for sound knowledge,
rational freedom, and manly piety, — I see no reason why
this Institution may not prosper, and be considered as a
valuable addition to the public establishments of this
country. That such may be its fate, is my most sincere
desire/and ardent prayer : and with these wishes for its

272 LECTURE XIX.

prosperity, and with my hearty thanks to this elegant
and accomplished audience, for the attention with
which I have been heard, I conclude my Lectures;
wishing to you all, every possible happiness till we
meet again.

LECTURE XX.

ON THE ACTIVE POWERS OF THE MIND.

DIVISIONS OF THE ACTIVE POWERS INTO APPETITES, DESIRES, AND AFFEC-
TIONS. OF WHAT IS MEANT BY THE TERM " PASSION." OF THE ORIGIN

OF OUR PASSIONS. THE APPLICATION OF DR. HARTLEY'S THEORY TO THE

PASSIONS. SOME REMARKS ON THE IMPERFECTIONS AND BEAUTIES OF

THAT THEORY.

I have had the pleasure of reading here two sets of
Lectures, — the one upon the Understanding, the other
upon Taste. I come now to the consideration of the
Active Powers of the Mind, or those principles of our
nature which impel us to action. The distinction
between the intellectual and the active powers, or the
understanding and the will, is one of very great antiquity;
far anterior, I fancy, to the time of Aristotle : and it
appears to be one of the most convenient divisions, for
arranging the complicated powers of the human mind.

The two popular terms which express this division
are head and heart ; it being very natural that men, in
their speculations concerning the connection of body and
mind, should suppose that particular parts of the mind
were more particularly associated with particular parts
of the body. I need scarcely say that the notion is
quite fanciful ; — that it would be quite as philosophical
to say of an able man that he had a good liver, or to
praise a virtuous man for the soundness of his lungs,
as it would be to speak of the head of the one, or the
heart of the other. I mention this bodily distinction, not
from any idea of the justice of the hypothesis it involves,
but merely to show that the common notions of man-
kind have always gone along with this distinction of the
powers of the mind, into those which are intellectual and
those which are active.

274 LECTURE XX.

This science of mental philosophy has often been
represented as vague and unsatisfactory. It certainly
is not capable of that precision which many others are ;
but its most skeptical enemies would not pretend to
confound an idea with a feeling. Nobody would pre-
tend to say that the mind is affected in the same manner
by hard, soft, green, or blue, as it is by anger, shame,
hatred, and love. Every one feels the necessity of
dividing the two classes, and naturally conceives that
they are subjected to very different laws. It is not im-
possible, perhaps, that we might possess every intel-
lectual faculty we now have, without feeling the influence
of one single appetite, desire, or affection. Constituted
as we now are, there are moments in our existence, when
the soul of passion seems to be entirely laid to sleep, and
when outward objects are noticed by the understanding
without producing the slightest determination of the
will : and there are opposite states of tempest and con-
vulsion, when the passions confound the understanding
in all its operations, and make it a false and faithless
observer of the world without. In old age, in melan-
choly, and in sickness, the mind appears to be diseased,
from the decay of all its active powers. In madness
they all exist in excess. The great variety in human
character, — that astonishing difference between us, which
leaves one man in the little field where he was born, and
drives another out to command armies and senates, —
this difference principally depends upon the different de-
grees of curiosity and imitation in each, upon the empire
which fear and anger exercise over them ; upon how
they love, and how they hate ; upon the nature and de-
gree of all those active powers, which go to make up
the constitution of their minds.

The active principles of our nature are divided by
Mr. Stewart and Dr. Reid into appetites, desires, affec-
tions, self-love, and the moral faculty. They call those
feelings appetites which take their rise from the body,
— such as hunger and thirst, which operate periodically
after certain intervals, and cease only for a time, upon
the attainment of a particular object. They mean by
desires, those feelings which do not take their rise from

ON THE ACTIVE PUWEKS OF THE MIND. 275

the body ; which do not operate periodically, and do not
cease upon the attainment of a particular object. The
most remarkable active principles belonging to this class,
they consider to be the desire of knowledge, or curiosity,
the desire of society, the desire of power, and the desire
of superiority, or the principle of emulation. Under
the title of affections, they comprehend all those active
principles whose direct and ultimate object is the com-
munication of joy or pain to our fellow-creatures. Ac-
cording to this definition, resentment, revenge, hatred,
belong to the class of our affections, as well as gratitude
or pity. When I explain what they mean by self-love,
and the moral faculty, I must do it at full length. This
division of the active powers I shall in general adopt,
and propose to begin with the affections.

The popular word for affections in their highest degree,
is passion ; and the objection to using it, is, that it only
means the excess of the feeling : for instance, we could
not say that a man experienced the passion of anger
who felt a calm indignation at a serious injury he had
received ; we should only think ourselves justifiable in
applying the term passion if he were transported be-
yond all bounds if his reason were almost vanquished,
and if the bodily signs of that passion were visible in
his appearance. However, if I should hereafter use the
common term passion, instead of the more accurate term
affection, I beg to be understood to mean any degree of
a feeling, however great or small. Emotion will be found
to mean a short and transient fit of passion : however, I
shall use it synonymously with the words passion and
affection ; or, if I do not, I shall say so.

It must be allowed, I suppose, that, in strictness, noth-
ing can be meant by the passion, but the mere feeling of
mind. I am under the influence of violent rage from
some sudden and serious injury which I have experi-
enced ; but the quick respiration, the red cheek, the
frowning eyebrow, and the fixed eye, are not the affection
of anger, — they are only the signs which that affection
of anger produces on my body. In the same manner, I
have a distinct impression of the person who has injured
me; he appears almost to be standing before me: I

276 LECTURE XX.

know also that I have been assassinated in reputation, or
ruined in fortune : but all these ideas are not the pas-
sion of anger : they are the causes of that passion, but
not the passion itself. Again, I have the strongest desire
to inflict an exemplary punishment upon the person
who has done me this injury : — this is the affection or
passion of resentment ; the consequence of anger, but by
no means anger itself.

In the same manner, a child loves its mother. The
mother is the cause, which excites the affection of love
in the mind of the child. The affection may possibly
excite the child to do all the good in his power to his
mother ; — these are its consequences ; the affection it-
self is distinct from either : therefore, in speaking of
passions and affections, it should be remembered we are
merely speaking of certain feelings of the mind, which
it is impossible to define. You may state the causes of
such feelings, and their consequences ; but it is as impos-
sible to define them, as it is to define sour, sweet, and
savory. Men call the particular feeling annexed to
shame, by one name ; the particular feeling annexed to
anger, by another. They are only believed to be the
same in different individuals, because they proceed from
the same causes, and produce the same effects. It ap-
pears to me of some consequence to remember this ;
and to separate, in all discussions upon these very diffi-
cult subjects, the pure affection of mind, from what
gives it birth, and from what it induces men to do when
it is produced.

The first question which arises in the consideration of
human passions, is their origin. Concerning what pas-
sions we do actually possess, there can be no dispute ;
but the question is, respecting their origin. With how
many passions and desires are we born ? is there any
such original principle in our nature as a desire of power,
a desire of society, a desire of esteem ; or, are all these
feelings, — whose existence in the mature man no one
doubts, — capable of being resolved into any more simple
principles ? The same with the passions : are men born
with the original capacity of feeling gratitude for good,
and resentment for evil ? or can it be shown what the

ON THE ACTIVE POWERS OF THE MIND. 277

history of these feelings is ; can their origin be traced,
and their progress be clearly shown ? The former
opinions are entertained at present by the school of Reid,
in Scotland ; were taught by Hutcheson ; and were, I
fancy, the commonly received opinions on the subject
before the time of Hartley. The disciples of this school
may differ a little in their enumeration of the original
active principles of our nature, — but they all agree that
they are numerous ; that no account can be given of their
origin ; that they are there, because such is the constitu-
tion of our nature ; that it is an ultimate fact, and can not
be reasoned upon. For instance, Dr. Reid would say, that
" the passion of resentment is an original passion, im-
planted by Providence in the breast of all men for the
purposes of self-preservation." Dr. Hartley would say,
" the passion is there, and Providence intended it for
self-preservation ; but it was not placed originally in the
human mind : provision, and very wise and very curious
provision, is made, that it should uniformly spring up
there ; but it is not an original, inexplicable impulse.
I can show you the period when it does not exist ; I can
explain to you by what means it is generated ; I can
trace it throughout all its gradations, up to the perfect
life and entire development of the passion." This is
about the state of the question between Reid and Hart-
ley, respecting the origin of the active powers. I shall
now give some short account of the progress and nature
of Dr. Hartley's opinions.

Every body here present knows what is meant by the
association of ideas. When two ideas have, by any ac-
cident, been joined together frequently in the understand-
ing, the one idea has, ever after, the strongest tendency
to bring back the other: for instance, the celebrated
Descartes w r as very much in love with a lady who
squinted ; he had so associated that passion with obliqui-
ty of vision, that he declares, to the latest hour of his
life he could never see a lady with a cast in her eye,
without experiencing the most lively emotions. In the
same manner, to take the most trite of all instances, the
ideas of spirits and of darkness, are so strongly united
together in our infancy, that, it becomes an exceedingly

278 LECTURE XX.

difficult thing to separate them in mature age. There
is no reason upon earth, why twelve o'clock in the mid-
dle of the day, or why dinner-time, should not be the
proper season for ghosts, instead of the middle of the
night. It has pleased anility to make another arrange-
ment ; and now, as I have said before, the two ideas of
darkness and supernatural agency are so firmly united
together, that it is frequently almost impossible to sep-
arate them. This is what is meant by the principle
of association : and this principle was, I believe, first
noticed by Locke ; but he had recourse to it only to ex-
plain those sympathies and antipathies which he calls un-
natural, in distinction from those which he says are born
with us ; and nothing can be more imperfect than his
notions concerning the nature, cause, and effects, of the
principle.

Afterward, Mr. Gay, a clergyman in the West of
England, endeavored to show the possibility of deducing
all our passions and affections from association, in a dis-
sertation prefixed to Bishop Law's translation of King's
" Origin of Evil :" but he supposed the love of happiness
to be an original and implanted principle ; and that the
passions and affections were deducible only from sup-
posing sensible and rational creatures dependent upon
each other for their happiness. It was upon hearing of
Mr. Gay's opinion, that Dr. Hartley turned his thonghts
upon the subject ; and at length, after giving the closest
attention to it, in a course of several years, it appeared
to him very probable, not only that all our intellectual
pleasures and pains, but that all the phenomena of mem-
ory, imagination, volition, reasoning, and every other
mental affection and operation, are only different modes
or cases of the associations of ideas ; so that nothing is
necessary to make any man whatever he is, than a ca-
pacity of feeling pleasure and pain, and the principle of
association. These are the simple rudiments and begin-
nings of our nature ; these are the fountains of sorrow
and of joy ; from hence come all the passions which
gladden, and all which embitter life. Hence come

" The radiant smiles of Joy, the applauding hand
Of Admiration ; hence the bitter shower

ON THE ACTIVE POWERS OF THE MIND. 279

That sorrow sheds upon a brother's grave ;
Hence the dumb palsy of nocturnal Fear,
And those consuming tires that gnaw the heart
Of panting Indignation."

Such is the celebrated theory of Dr. Hartley ; in which
I have totally passed over his doctrine of vibrations, be-
cause, as every body knows, it is very foolish, and no
way connected with the valuable part of his system.

I shall now give two or three specimens of the man-
ner in which the various active powers are traced up to
simple pleasure and pain, guided by association ; and I
will begin with one of the passions, — the passion of fear.
Ask any one, whence comes the passion of fear ? and he
will tell you it is an original passion of our nature : at
the same time it is evident to observation, that a child is
wholly unacquainted with fear till he has received some
hurt. If fear were coeval with birth ; or a capacity of
being afraid, implanted in us independently of all experi-
ence, a child of four months old would be afraid of the
flame of a candle, the first moment he saw it, — he would
shrink from a viper, and be frightened into fits at the
sight of a loaded pistol. Try a child of that age with a
lighted candle ; he is so far from having any notion of
fear, that his first effort is to grasp it : when he has been
once burned, and suffered pain, the passion of fear — which
is nothing more, in its early state, than the expectation
of pain — is immediately formed. Put the candle to him
again : he has now associated two ideas, — the light of
the flame, and the pain of his body ; the appearance of
the flame, therefore, immediately gives him the notion
that he is going to suffer, — and this feeling is what we
call fear. In the same manner, a child learns to be afraid
of sharp weapons, of animals that bite and scratch, and
of all the common objects of juvenile terror ; and, per-
ceiving into how many inconveniences he is betrayed
by his ignorance, falls into a general apprehension of all
striking and unknown objects, because he can not ap-
preciate the degree of mischief to be expected from them.
This, I confess, appears to me a plain and true history of
the passion of fear. If it were an original passion, the
sight of a dagger would as immediately produce fear in

280 LECTURE XX.

a young child, as the touch of ice would produce cold in
him : but before he can experience this passion, it is
necessary he should suffer pain ; and it is necessary that
the object which has inflicted the pain should again be
presented to him, in order to recall the feeling which has
been associated to it.

I observe, what those persons stand out for the most,
who are the most conversant with children, is the fear
of falling which they express, even though they have
never fallen. But does it not seem rather capricious and
singular, that, among all the innumerable perils by which
children are surrounded, the fear of falling should be the
only one against which they have any instinctive warn-
ing ? A child will eat poison if it be sweet ; set himself
on fire, play with gunpowder, swallow needles, run into
any kind of mischief, from which he has suffered no
previous pain ; and amid these ten thousand avenues to
destruction, we believe that the only one he is warned
not to approach, is that which would break his arm or
his leg, or give him a great blow on the head. So that
the child may be burned, poisoned, stabbed, cut, mangled,
or any thing else, provided he is not bruised. But what
is the meaning of a child being afraid instinctively ? If
he is afraid of an object, he must, I suppose, have an idea
of that object. Is he, then, born with the ideas of fire,
of boiling water, of sharp-pointed weapons, of medical
gentlemen, and all other objects which can do him
harm ; — or, if Locke has driven us out of these anti-
quated notions, shall we suppose, that he has no previous
acquaintance with them ; but that when they are per-
ceived for the first time, the passion of fear immediately
takes place ? Is a child, then, startled by a brass blun-
derbuss the first time he sees it ? " But this is not a
natural object :" true ; but is he, then, startled by arse-
nic, any more than with powdered sugar ? To what do
these instinctive terrors extend ? It appears to me, I
confess, quite impossible to make common sense of any
supposition but that of Hartley, which says, that pain is
the teacher of fear. Before pain there is no fear ; and
when that passion exists, however great the distance,

ON THE ACTIVE POWERS OF THE MIND. 281

and however circuitous the course, there is the fountain-
head from which it sprang.

I will now consider two of the most important princi-
ples of our nature, — the desire of doing harm to others,
and the desire of doing good ; — resentment and benevo-
lence. It will be curious to observe how far they fall
into this doctrine of association. A young child, soon
after his birth, has not the least desire to do good or
harm to any one ; he has no such passions : and it is our
business to explain how he gets them. The food he eats
or drinks gives him pleasure ; but observing, in process
of time, that the nurse is always present when he re-
ceives his food, the sight of the nurse gives him pleasure,
because it reminds him of his food ; yet in process of
time the idea of the food is obliterated, and the sight of
the nurse gives him pleasure, and, without the interve-
ning idea that she is useful to him, he loves her immedi-
ately after his appetite of hunger is satisfied, as well as
before : his passion for her, which first proceeded from
an interested motive, becomes quite disinterested ; and
he loves her without the slightest reference to the ad-
vantages she procures him. This is the origin of his
love for his nurse : and then, as all kindred ideas are
very easily associated together, he proceeds from loving
her to desiring her good ; for, perceiving that other peo-
ple like what he likes, it is very natural, that the idea of
his own gratification in eating, should suggest the idea
of the nurse's gratification ; and that he should offer her
a little morsel of his apple or his cake, or any puerile
luxury which he happens to be enjoying. The associa-
tion is easy to be comprehended, and seems perfectly
natural. Besides, a child begins very early to associate
his own advantage with benevolence. Cake, and com-
mendation, the parent of cake, are lavished upon the
child who shows a disposition to please others. Cuffs,
and frowns, and hard words, are the portion of a selfish
and a malevolent child : he begins with loving benevo-
lence for the advantage it affords him, and ends with
loving it for itself: he is not born with love of any thing,
but merely with the capacity of feeling pleasure ; which
he first feels for the milk, then for the mother, because

282 LECTURE XX.

she gives him the milk, then for her own sake : then, as
she makes him happy, association gives him the idea of
making her happy ; and he gains so much by benevo-
lence, that he loves it first for the advantages it affords,
then for itself. Reverse all this, and you will have the'
history and progress of the malevolent passions. A
young child hates nobody. If you were to pinch or
scratch him, he would feel pain ; if you did it often, he
would associate the idea of you with the idea of pain,
and would hate you, first, on account of the ideas you
suggested, then hate you plainly and simply without any
cause. After he had learned by observation, that you
were similarly constituted with himself, he would be led
to associate your painful feelings with his own ; and thus
a foundation of malevolence toward you would be laid.
Again : a child is deterred from doing any thing by
threats and by pain ; and he perceives that other per-
sons are deterred by similar means ; he therefore asso-
ciates these ideas with prevention ; threatens and beats
whoever contradicts him ; and cherishes resentment as
a means of gratifying his will, and effecting whatever
object he has in view. It is quite impossible that a child
can be born with any feeling of resentment. He can
never tell that the way to prevent another child from
beating him, is to beat that child again ; it would be an
enormous thing that he who does not yet know black
from scarlet, should be acquainted with the dominion
which pain has over the mind, and make use of it to ac-
complish his purposes ; and yet, such is the opinion that
they adopt, who consider this passion as innate, and coe-
val with our existence.

I have said that the child first associates with his
mother the idea of food, and loves her in consequence
of this association ; then loves her from disinterested
motives, without any association at all : and I have said
that he hates his tormentor, first, from associating pain-
ful ideas with his appearance ; and then hates him with-
out any association at all. This leads me to the men-
tion of a very general, and very important law of asso-
ciation : and that is this ; — the medium idea by which
two others are associated, is always at length destroyed,

ON THE ACTIVE POWERS OF THE MIND. 283

and the two others coalesce, and make the association :
for instance, whatever we love for its uses, we love for
itself. A man begins to love his horse because he car-
ries him well out hunting : he ends with loving the
horse without the slightest reference to his utility ; and
keeps him when he is blind and lame, with as much at-
tention as in the vigor of his youth. Here, the middle
term (if I may use the expression), which united together
the two ideas of horse and affection, was utility : that
middle term was effaced ; and the affection remains
for the horse, when all notion of utility is completely at
an end. The middle term here is like a cramp or a
screw put upon two pieces of wood, just glued together,
— it serves to keep them together at first, but can be re-
moved with perfect safety, when the cement is solid, and
the union complete.

I remember once seeing an advertisement in the pa-
pers, with which I was much struck ; and which I will
take the liberty of reading : — " Lost, in the Temple Cof-
fee House, and supposed to be taken away by mistake,
an oaken stick, which has supported its master not only
over the greatest part of Europe, but has been his com-
panion in his journeys over the inhospitable deserts of
Africa ; whoever will restore it to the waiter, will confer
a very serious obligation on the advertiser ; or, if that be
any object, shall receive a recompense very much above
the value of the article restored." Now, here is a man
who buys a sixpenny stick, because it is useful ; and
totally forgetting the trifling causes which first made his
stick of any consequence, speaks of it with warmth and
affection ; calls it his companion ; and would hardly
have changed it, perhaps, for the gold stick which is car-
ried before the king. But the best and strongest exam-
ple of this, and of the customary progress of association,
is in the passion of avarice. A child only loves a guinea
because it shines ; and, as it is equally splendid, he loves
a gilt button as well. In after-life, he begins to love
wealth, because it affords him the comforts of existence;
and then loves it so well, that he denies himself the com-
mon comforts of life to increase it. The uniting idea is
so totally forgotten, that it is completely sacrificed to the

284 LECTURE XX.

ideas which it unites. Two friends unite against the
person to whose introduction they are indebted for their
knowledge of each other ; exclude him their society, and
ruin him by their combination.

I might, upon the same principle, proceed to explain
a vast variety of passions and desires, which are all
commonly spoken of as original principles of our nature.
For instance : nothing appears to me more decided and
indisputable, than that men are not born with any love
of power, any love of society, or any love of esteem ; all
these feelings, — which we all experience so strongly, —
have all sprung from pleasure, pain, and association ;
and are entirely explicable upon that system. But, if I
were to go through with them, I should merely be tread-
ing over the same ground I have passed already : the prin-
ciple once understood, there is no great difficulty in
making the application to particular cases.

I beg leave again to observe, — and I request the par-
ticular attention of my hearers to it, — that the only dif-
ference between the friends of this doctrine of associa-
tion, and their antagonists, is, respecting the origin of
all these feelings and passions. Respecting their exist-
ence, there is none. Every one agrees that there is a
love of parents, a love of country, a desire of esteem,
and a desire of knowledge : the only question is, respect-
ing their origin. Are they primitive ? Can no account
be given of their causes ? or from what are they de-
rived ? They say, in tracing up a river to its source,
we find it bursting out from innumerable streams. We
say, this is very true ; but you stop short too soon, you
don't look far enough ; we can show you your numerous
fountains distinctly terminating in one, — the plain, an-
cient, and undoubted source of the stream. The admi-
rable simplicity of this doctrine ought certainly to rec-
ommend it to universal attention ; as, independent of
other considerations, it wears the face of that simplicity
in causes, and variety in effects, which we discover in
every other part of nature.

" In human works, though labor'd on with pain,
A thousand movements scarce one purpose gain :

ON THE ACTIVE POWERS OF THE MIND. 285

In God's, one single can its end produce ;
Yet serves to second, too, some other use."

IN or let any man imagine that the power and goodness
of Providence is diminished in the estimation of man, by
that philosophy which teaches that we come into the
world void of all passions, and acquire them by these
simple means. Is it wiser and greater to move every
planet by a fresh power, or to guide them all in their
spheres by the simple principle of gravity ? Did Newton
degrade our notions of Providence when he discovered
one great law presiding over heaven and earth ? Did
Locke diminish our admiration of the human mind, and
of Him who made it, when he showed us how all its
infinite variety of ideas grow out of mere sensation and
reflection ? To show us that a variety of movements in
a machine all proceed from one and the same original
power, is to show us that that machine has been con-
ceived clearly and grandly ; for imbecility, and want of
resources, are shown by calling in a vast variety of
powers to produce one plain effect. But opulence of
thought, and immensity of mind, are shown by producing
an infinite variety of effects, from one simple cause.
Providence did not originally implant in men a love of
esteem, or a love of knowledge ; but Providence im-
planted that capacity of feeling pleasure and pain, and
that facility of association, which as infallibly produce
the love of esteem and knowledge, as if they had been
original feelings of the mind.

But what says Dr. Reid and his school ? — That Prov-
idence, which moves all the heavenly bodies by one
simple cause ; — that Providence, which darts the blood
of man through a million vessels by the contraction of
one single organ ; — that Providence, always so simple
and so grand, is in the fabrication of the mind, alone
complicated and confused, arranging without order, and
planning without art. What was the first command ?
Not " let there be colors ?" not " let the herb be green,
and the heavens be blue :" but, " let there be light !"
and forthwith there was every variety of color! So
with us ; the first mandate was not, "let man be affected

286 LECTURE XX.

with anger and gratitude," but " let man feel ;" and then,
matter let loose upon him, with all its malignities, and
all its pleasures, roused up in him his good and his bad
passions, and made him as he is, — the best and the worst
of created beings.

I have heard it said, as an objection against this theory,
that there is a neatness in it, an arrondissement, which
gives it a great appearance of quackery and imposture.
This is very likely ; but I am not contending that the
theory looks as if it were true, but merely that it is true.
At the same time, there is a great deal of merit in the
observation ; for discoveries in general, especially upon
such very intricate subjects, are more ragged, uneven,
and incomplete ; there is here a little light, and there a
great deal of darkness ; in one place you make a great
inroad, and then you are stopped by impenetrable bar-
riers : but here is one master-key which opens every
bolt and barrier; a philosophy which explains every
thing, and leaves the whole subject at rest forever. All
these are certainly presumptive evidences against the
theory ; but if it perform all that it promise, those pre-
sumptive evidences are, of course, honorably repelled.

I beg leave, however, before I conclude this lecture,
to repeat again and again, that I by no means undertake
to burthen myself with the whole of Dr. Hartley's theory.
The vibrations, every one laughs at. The doctrines of
necessity, which he has chosen to add on to it, I have
nothing to do with : the subject is improper for this
place ; and the whole question, rightly considered, more
a question of words, than of any thing else.

The great principle of Hartley, which I am exclusively
endeavoring to maintain, is this, — that all the passions
are derived from pleasure and pain, guided by associa-
tion. For that opinion I am responsible, and for no
other. I now take leave of it with saying, that, in my
very confined and inconsiderable attention to such sort
of subjects, I have felt a security and a satisfaction in
this system, which I never did in any other : every day
convinces me more and more, that it is a discovery of
vast importance ; fresh facts arrange themselves under
it ; it solves new difficulties ; and as it remains longer

ON THE ACTIVE POWERS OF THE MIND. "287

in the mind, it increases in durability and improves in
strength.

" Love, Hope, and Joy, — fair Pleasure's smiling train ;
Hate, Fear, and Grief, — the family of Pain :
These, mix'd with art, and to due bounds confin'd,
Make and maintain the pleasures of the mind ;
The lights and shades, whose well-accorded strife
Gives all its strength and color to our life."

LECTURE XXI.

ON THE EVIL AFFECTIONS.

OF THE MALEVOLENT AND UNPLEASANT PASSIONS *. THEY ARE ALL DERIVED
FROM PAIN, GUIDED BY ASSOCIATION. OF THE GENERATION OF RESENT-
MENT, AND THE RESTRAINTS IMPOSED UPON IT BY EDUCATION. OF MAL-
ICE, FEAR, SHAME, AND THE PAIN OF INACTIVITY.

There have been almost as many different arrange-
ments of the passions, as there have been writers who
have treated on the subject. Some writers have placed
them in centrast to each other, as Hope and Fear, Joy
and Sorrow. Some have considered them as they are
personal, relative, or social ; some according to their influ-
ence at different periods of life ; others, as they relate to
past, present, or future time. The academicians ad-
vanced, that the principal passions were Fear, Hope,
Joy, and Grief. They included Aversion and Despair
under the passion of Grief; Hope, Fortitude, and Anger
under Desire. Dr. Hartley has arranged the passions
under five grateful and five ungrateful ones : the grateful
ones are, Love, Desire, Hope, Joy, and Pleasing Recol-
lection ; the ungrateful ones, Hatred, Aversion, Fear,
Grief, and Displeasing Recollection. Dr. Watts and
Mr. Grove have both followed different arrangements,
which I will not detain you by stating : whoever is de-
sirous of seeing them at length, may consult Dr. Cogan's
book on the Passions, who has also proposed and followed
an arrangement of his own.

Conceiving that we are born merely with a capacity of
feeling pleasure and pain, and that from this capacity,
directed by association, all the affections of our nature
spring, it appears to me that the plainest and most nat-
ural arrangement will be, to divide the affections accord-

ON THE EVIL AFFECTIONS. 289

ing to their origin, as they are derived from the one or
the other of these great principles of our nature, and as
they belong to the family of pleasure or of pain.

I shall begin with those affections of the mind which
are formed by painful associations ; premising, that I by
no means intend to pursue this subject as far as it would
lead me, or to enter into very minute and accurate dis-
tinctions, because such an analysis would be excessively
tedious, and would better become a professed treatise
on the passions, than a course of Lectures on Moral
Philosophy.

All ungrateful passions are the sensation of evil : but
it may be evil long passed (for the remembrance of which
we have no name) ; or it may be present evil, either of
body or mind, and from different causes, as pain, grief,
and fear; or it may be the apprehension of evil to come,
which is fear. From the sensations of evil, comes the
desire of inflicting it, or malevolence. Hence anger,
jealousy, malice, envy, and all the train of bad passions,
which are all compounded of the same principles, — dis-
pleasure, and a desire of displeasing ; or, in more com-
mon words, hatred and revenge. So that all the vices
of our nature come from remembering evil, feeling it, an-
ticipating it, and inflicting it (the consequence of these
three preceding states).

The difference between grief and pain is, that we
apply the expression of grief to those uneasy sensations
which have not the body for their immediate cause ;
pain, to those which have. The loss of reputation oc-
casions grief; the loss of a limb, pain.

Grief is that uneasy state of mind which proceeds from
the loss of some good, or the presence of some evil. A
singular circumstance respecting grief, is, that there is
not always, in the suffering person, a very ready dispo-
sition to get rid of his sorrow : he clings to the remem-
brance of it ; gathers round about him every thing which
can recall the idea of what he has lost ; and appears to
derive his principal consolation from those trains of ideas
which an indifferent person would consider as best cal-
culated to exasperate his affliction. The reason of this,
I take to be, that it is pleasant to be pitied, pleasant even

N

290 LECTURE XXI.

to think how we should be pitied, if the world were well
acquainted with all the minute circumstances of our
l 0SSj — w ith all the fine ties and endearments which bound
us to the object of our affections. We are fond of rep-
resenting ourselves to our own fancies as objects of the
most profound and universal sympathy. Death never
took away such a father, such a husband, or such a son ;
we dwell upon our misfortunes, and magnify them, till
we derive a sort of consolation from reflecting on that
exquisite pity to which we are entitled, and which we
should receive if the whole extent of our calamity were
as well known to others as to ourselves. We dwell
upon our affliction, however, not merely from the sym-
pathy to which it appears to entitle us, but because in
that train of ideas there are many that give an immedi-
ate relief of pleasure, which, though purchased dearly
by the subsequent pain to which they expose us, are
still resorted to for that immediate pleasure. For in-
stance, a man reduced to sudden poverty, may take some
pleasure in thinking a moment on the luxuries which he
has been accustomed to enjoy : he pays dearly enough for
such reflections, when he is forced to perceive what his
present state is ; but still the train of thought has been
pleasant for the moment, — it has given him some im-
mediate relief, and therefore he has indulged it. "Grief/'
says Constance,—

" Grief fills the room up of my absent child,
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me ;
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts,
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form."

These two causes appear to me to explain the singular
phenomenon, that sorrow should ever be pleasant, and
justify the usual poetical expression of the luxury of
grief.

Grief, it should be observed, seems to be a general
term for all sensations of evil, when that sensation has
not a specific name.

That sensation of evil which proceeds from the loss of
esteem, has a specific name ; it is called shame. Most

ON THE EVIL AFFECTIONS. 291

of the other sensations of evil, — as that which proceeds
from the loss of friends, or the loss of fortune, or from
frustrated ambition, — pass under the common and in-
clusive name of grief; though there is no reason that I
know of, why that uneasiness which proceeds from the
loss of power, should not have a specific name as well
as that which proceeds from the loss of esteem.

Grief produces resentment or not, according as it is
accompanied with the notion of its being occasioned by
a voluntary and rational agent. For instance, a young
boy walks under an old, ruinous building ; a stone falls
on his head, and he is killed : in this case you feel no-
thing but pure affliction : — but you learn immediately
after, that some wicked and malicious person has pushed
down this stone upon the child's head, and killed him :
here grief is immediately followed by resentment ; and
you are actuated by the strongest and most irresistible
motives to do all possible harm to the murderer of your
son. So that resentment is always preceded by uneasy
sensations of the body, that we call pain ; or of the mind,
which we call grief; though grief and pain do not al-
ways produce resentment. It will be curious to investi-
gate the origin and progress of this difference, and to
decide how it is, that precisely the same degree of grief
does sometimes produce violent resentment, sometimes
not.

As I stated in the last Lecture, it is quite impossible
to suppose that a child is born with all those compound
notions which enter into the word resentment ; for, ob-
serve all the knowledge which this implies : first, you
suppose the child of a month old, or a day old, to know
that my hand guided the pin with which I pricked him ;
next, that I can guide my hand where I please ; next,
that I feel pain as he does, and that he has a right to
inflict the same pain as I have inflicted upon him.
There is not the slightest evidence that the child has
any one of all these ideas ; and I would just as soon be-
lieve that a child just born could say the three first books
of Ariosto by heart, as that he is born with any such
wisdom. He learns by experience, that other human
creatures feel pleasure and pain as well as himself; that

292 LECTURE XXI.

they are allured by pleasure to do him good, and by pain
intimidated from doing him harm. Hence the origin of
his benevolence and his resentment ; of his desire to do
harm, or to do good, to his fellow-creatures. A young
child of seven or eight months old, if you take him away
from any object that attracts his attention, will cry, ex-
press great grief, and all that agitation of body, and im-
patience of mind, which is frequently occasioned by
grief ; but there is not the slightest appearance of resent-
ment. It never appears to occur to a child of that age,
that you are the cause of this privation ; that you can
feel pain, and that therefore he will inflict it. It is long
after this period, that he acquires this very compound
idea ; and he acquires it, as he acquires the power of
knowing black from white, and tall from short, — by
observation.

It may appear very extraordinary that there should
be such a prodigious tendency in after-life to connect
grief with resentment, when they were not originally
connected together by nature. But I think the doctrine
of acquired perceptions, must convince any man how
much the work of association is like an original impres-
sion of nature ; and how impossible it is to distinguish
the laminae put together by association, from those
which were originally solid and continuous. Besides,
too, all similar passions naturally generate each other, as
we shall see hereafter ; and there is a very strong
resemblance in the effects of grief, pain, and resentment ;
and, having once been joined together, the one has the
strongest possible disposition to produce the other. I
am not speaking of the highest-refined London grief, —
the grief of civilization and softness ; but the grief of a
savage and a child. The grief of nature in its first stage
is a violent, impatient, irritating passion, very much
resembling anger. The natural effect of grief and pain
is, to cry out as loud as possible, and to kick and sprawl
in all possible directions ; and I believe, if people would
do so much more than they do, they would be all the
better for it. The sitting on monuments smiling, and
the green and yellow melancholy, is quite a subsequent
business, entirely the result of education.

ON THE" EVIL AFFECTIONS. 293

Having acquired the feeling of resentment, the child
is, of course, very unlearned at first in the application
of it ; he has not yet learned what objects have life and
feeling, what not ; and at the age of two years, when
thrown into a violent rage, it is not impossible but that
he will beat the chair upon which he has knocked his
head, or the table that has thrown him down, as vehe-
mently as if they were capable of suffering from his
malevolence. In a very little time he learns the folly of
this ; distinguishes between objects that feel, and objects
that do not ; and is more learned and skillful in directing
the effusions of his wrath. After he has learned to
direct his resentment only against objects that have life
and feeling, education limits the confines of his resent-
ment still more, by infusing in his mind the idea of
justice ; by instructing him that he must not resent
unless the injury has been done intentionally, — unless he
who has been guilty of it, has done it without any fair
and lawful pretext ; and that after all, where it can not
be forgiven with propriety, it must be punished with
moderation. So that education teaches us at last to
support a large class of griefs without gratifying the
propensity to resentment ; and confines the gratification
of that passion to where the injury has been inflicted by
a rational being, intentionally and unjustly. There still
exists, however, through life, the strongest disposition to
connect together grief, pain, and resentment ; and it
requires the strongest and steadiest appeal to the princi-
ples of justice to keep it down. We often kick a stock
or a stone, over which we have stumbled, from the mere
habit we have acquired of associating resentment with
pain. We feel a sort of resentment against the person
who brings us bad news. Zinzis Khan cut off the head
of one of his favorites for venturing to inform him of a
partial defeat his troops had sustained. The raising up
of the passion of resentment, causes an immediate diver-
sion of the passion of grief; and therefore, the feeling of
resentment in cases of grief, seems to be sought after, in
some badly constituted minds, as a sort of relief. Sup-
pose any person were to purchase a piece of painted
glass for three or four hundred pounds ; it is discovered

294 LECTURE XXI.

to have fallen down, and is broken to pieces ; — the dis-
position of resentment to follow displeasure is so great,
that I am afraid it would be some relief to find that this
had been knocked down by a careless servant ; and that
the master would not be very well pleased with his
servant, who could give him such an account of the
business as precluded the master from all possibility of
scolding. A child is rarely deformed, or rarely dies, by
the hand of nature ; but, according to the parent, the
nurse has mismanaged it, or the physician destroyed it
by his ignorance. Men in violent pain are excessively
irascible, very strongly disposed to quarrel and find
fault. A gamester, who has lost a thousand pounds,
comes home, and relieves his uneasiness by quarreling
with his wife and children, and abusing his servants.
All these are instances of the strong disposition of man-
kind to associate together grief and resentment ; in these
instances, the disposition is so strongly evinced that it
entirely overpowers all sense of justice.

Contempt is that painful emotion which a human
being excites in you, by his degrading qualities or con-
duct. Contempt only diminishes resentment, in those
injuries which depend upon the character of the person
who inflicts them. A libel may be written by a man so
infamous, that all the severe things he has said are
rendered harmless by the name which is subscribed to
them ; here, my resentment is less, because the grief I
feel, is so much less, from having been traduced by such
a man : but if the same man were to set my house on
fire, or assault me with a large stick, the general con-
temptibility of his character would certainly have very
little effect in diminishing my resentment. Contempt
diminishes resentment by diminishing danger — the cause
of resentment.

Peevishment is resentment, excited by trifles. Envy
is resentment, excited by superiority, — not by all su-
periority, but by that to which you think you are fairly
entitled : for a plowman does not envy a king ; but he
envies another plowman who has a shilling a week
more than he has. Malice is pure malevolence; a desire
to inflict injury without a cause; an abstract love of

ON THE EVIL AFFECTIONS. 295

doing mischief; — at least, so it is commonly said to be :
but there can hardly be any such passion ; it must be a
desire of doing mischief for some very slight and foolish
cause. I don't like the cut of a man's coat, or the make
of his face ; or, he talks too quick, or too slow, or some
other such absurd and childish reason, — which makes
me his enemy, and inclines me to do him harm.

Sulkiness, is anger half subdued by fear. Jealousy, is
another modification of anger ; — the causes of which, I
believe, there is no occasion I should explain. Cruelty,
is rather a habit than a passion: it will easily appear,
however, that it is the genuine and necessary offspring
of anger, often indulged and gratified. It is most apt
to arise in proud, selfish, and timorous persons, who con-
ceive highly of their own merits, and of the consequent
inj ustice of all offenses committed against them ; and
who have an exquisite feeling and apprehension in
respect of private gratification and uneasiness. Mon-
tesquieu has made this remark : he says, that all persons
accustomed to the implicit gratification of the will, are
very apt to be cruel.

Fear, is the apprehension of future evil. Habit dimin-
ishes fear, when it raises up contrary associations ; and
increases it, when it confirms the first associations. A
soldier, who has often escaped, begins to disunite the
two ideas of dying and fighting ; he connects also with
fighting, a sense of duty, and a love of glory. Habit, I
should think, would increase the sensation of fear, in a
person who had undergone two or three painful opera-
tions, and was about to submit to another. A man
works in a gunpowder-mill every day of his life, with the
utmost sang froid, which you would not be very much
pleased to enter for half an hour : you have associated
with the manufactory, nothing but the accidents you
have heard it is exposed to ; he has associated with it,
the numberless days he has passed there in perfect securi-
ty. For the same reason, a sailor-boy stands unconcerned
upon the mast ; a mason upon a ladder ; and a miner
descends by his single rope. Their associations are
altered by experience ; therefore, in estimating the degree
in which human creatures are under the influence of this

296 LECTURE XXI.

passion, we must always remember their previous habits.
A woman conceives, early in life, such dreadful notions
of war, and all the instruments of war, that no degree of
maternal tenderness, probably, would induce her to take
a sword and pistol, and go and fight ; but in the time of
a public plague, she would despise her own life, nurse
her sick husband, or her children, and expose herself to
death, as boldly as any grenadier. In the late attack
upon Egypt, our soldiers behaved with the most distin-
guished courage ; but a physician did what, I suppose,
no soldier in the whole army would have dared to have
done ; — he slept for three nights in the sheets of a
patient who had died of the plague ! If the question had
been to encounter noisy, riotous death, he probably
could not have done it ; but where pus and miasma
were concerned, he appears to have been a perfect hero.
Fear, is the most contagious of all the passions ; and the
reason is obvious enough why it becomes so : it is much
more likely that the cause of* your fear should concern
me, more than the cause of any other of your passions.
If I see you very angry, it is not probable, unless we
happen to be intimately connected, that the cause of
your anger would prove to be a cause of mine ; but if I
see you dreadfully frightened, it immediately occurs to
me, that I am implicated in the same cause of fear : — you
have discovered that the play-house in which we are
both sitting, is on fire ; you have seen an enraged bull,
running in the streets : I am not easy for an instant, till
I have discovered the cause of your terror, and satisfied
myself, that it does not concern us both.

The passion of fear, in its ordinary state, is a vibration
of the mind, between the expectation of good, and the
expectation of evil; in which contest, however, the ex-
pectation of evil preponderates. The moment all hope
is banished, and nothing remains but despair (the ex-
pectation of certain evil), the passion assumes a new
form ; — very often that of the most furious resentment.
A rat is a very timid animal, with respect to men ; but
get a rat into a corner, where all possibility of escape is
precluded, and a rat will fly at you like a tiger. The in-
stances are innumerable of the heroic exploits performed

ON THE EVIL AFFECTIONS. 297

by small bodies of troops, whose fears, despair has con-
verted into resentment. In cases where there is no room
for resentment, — as in shipwreck, — despair produces va-
rious species of insanity, stupor, and delirium, while the
sailors are only afraid ; that is, while there is a mixture
of two passions, they work, and do all they can for their
safety. The moment there is no more hope, — so impos-
sible is it for the ordinary mass of human beings to look
steadily at great and certain evil, that many jump over-
board and drown themselves ; some are quite stupefied ;
others completely raving mad.

A great propensity to fear is, I should imagine, capa-
ble of some degree of cure. The living with brave men,
would certainly go a great way to diminish this passion
of fear ; — as all our qualities of mind, whether good or
bad, are highly contagious. To put ourselves in situa-
tions where we must act before many witnesses, operates
as a check upon fear, by raising up contrary passions,
of the dread of shame. It very often happens, in cases
of danger, that some one present, is more under the in-
fluence of this passion than ourselves, and that this ex-
ample, instead of increasing our fear, produces the con-
trary effect, — of diminishing it : we become ashamed of
our companion's weakness ; then of our own. Vanity
induces us, also, to make a display of our superiority ;
and, by this effort, the fear is diminished. Fear is re-
peatedly overcome by affection, and compassion. A
mother would run away from a dog, if her child was not
with her ; but she faces him very boldly when her fears
are excited for another. A sudden cry of distress will
induce a man, very often, to do what no regard for his
own safety could possibly impel him to perform.

Suspicion, clearly belongs to the family of fear : it is
that passion applied to the motives and intentions of hu-
man creatures. For instance, we should not call a man
suspicious who was extremely careful of his health ; and
who was always believing, when he walked out, that it
was going to thunder, or rain ; but we should call that
person suspicious, who believed that every person with
whom he lived, was laying plots to defraud and deceive
him. Fear, is certainly a strong predisposing cause to

N*

298 LECTURE XXI.

suspicion. It is highly probable that a suspicious man
is naturally a timid man ; though the converse is not
equally probable, — that a timid person should be sus-
picious. Women are timid, but not suspicious ; — much
the contrary.

The particular kind of grief we feel for the loss of
reputation, is called shame ; the aversion occasioned by
which feeling, — the desire to escape it, — is, perhaps, the
most powerful of all the passions. The most curious
offspring of shame, is shyness ; — a word always used, I
fancy, in a bad sense, to signify misplaced shame ; for a
person who felt only diffident, exactly in proportion as
he ought, would never be called shy. But a shy person
feels more shame, than it is graceful, or proper, he should
feel ; generally, either from ignorance or pride. A
young man, in making his first entrance into society, is
so ignorant as to imagine he is the object of universal
attention ; and that every thing he does is subject to the
most rigid criticism. Of course, under such a supposi-
tion, he is shy and embarrassed : he regains his ease, as
he becomes aware of his insignificance. An excessive
jealousy of reputation, is the very frequent parent of
shyness, and makes us all afraid of saying and doing,
what w r e might say and do, with the utmost propriety
and grace. We are afraid of hazarding any thing ; and
the game stands still, because no man will venture any
stake : whereas, the object of living together, is not se-
curity only, but enjoyment. Both objects are promoted
by a moderate dread of shame ; both destroyed by that
passion, when it amounts to shyness ; — for a shy person
not only feels pain, and gives pain ; but, what is worse,
he incurs blame, for a want of that rational and manly
confidence, which is so useful to those who possess it,
and so pleasant to those who witness it. I am severe
against shyness, because it looks like a virtue without
being sl virtue ; and because it gives us false notions of
what the real virtue is. I admit that it is sometimes an
affair of body, rather than of mind ; that where a person
wishes to say what he knows will be received with favor,
he can not command himself enough to do it. But this
is merely the effect of habit, where the cause that

ON THE EVIL AFFECTIONS. 299

created the habit has for a moment ceased. When the
feelings respecting shame are disciplined by good sense,
and commerce with the world, to a fair medium, the
body will soon learn to obey the decisions of the under-
standing.

Nor let any young man imagine (however it may flat-
ter the vanity of those who perceive it), that there can
be any thing worthy of a man, in faltering, and tripping,
and stammering, and looking like a fool, and acting like
a clown. A silly college pedant believes that this high-
est of all the virtues, consists in the shame of the body ;
in losing the ease and possession of a gentleman ; in turn-
ing red ; and tumbling down ; in saying this thing, when
you mean that ; in overturning every body within your
reach, out of pure bashfulness ; and in a general stupid-
ity and ungainliness, and confusion of limb, and thought,
and motion. But that dread of shame, which virtue and
wisdom teach, is, to act so, from the cradle to the tomb,
that no man can cast upon you the shadow of reproach ;
not to swerve on this side for wealth, or on that side for
favor ; but to go on speaking truly, and acting justly :
no man's oppressor, and no man's sycophant and slave.
This is the shame of the soul ; and these are the blushes
of the inward man ; which are worth all the distortions
of the body, and all the crimson of the face.

I come now to the pain of inactivity, or ennui. All
young animals have a great pleasure in motion ; and
when they have moved for a long time, they have a great
pleasure in remaining at rest. In the one feeling, na-
ture secures the activity of animals, and distinguishes
them from the vegetable and the mineral kingdom ; by
the other, prevents that activity from destroying them.
When the mind entertains no desire nor aversion strong
enough to induce us to act, either with the body, or by
thinking, we are ennuied, and in a state bordering upon
the greatest misery. The solitary imprisonment recom-
mended by Howard, has, I fancy, been given up, from
its having driven several persons to insanity. The ab-
sence of desire and aversion, or which includes them
both, motive, destroyed their reason. A man much
given to speculation might have supported himself, per-

300 LECTURE XXI.

haps, in such a situation ; or a mind fertile in inventing
occupations ; but it is such a strain upon human nature,
that none but its choicest and strongest materials can
support it. Baron Trenck, in his dreadful imprisonment,
took to engraving pewter pots, which, I believe, was his
sole occupation before he began to contrive his escape.
Count Saxe, in his solitary cell, formed a strict friend-
ship with a large spider, provided it with flies and gnats,
and every dainty that was on the wing ; and had so far
familiarized the creature to him, that it would crawl
upon his hand with the most perfect security, and come
out of its hiding-place upon a noise which the count was
accustomed to make. It is added, that the jailer, when
he perceived the amusement which the count derived
from the spider, killed it !

Count Rumford availed himself, in a very ingenious
manner, of the pain of ennui. He compelled all the
new-comers in his school to sit quite idle, and do nothing.
The misery they felt from remaining entirely without
occupation, operated as the strongest stimulus in them,
to desire work ; and they received his permission to la-
bor in the manufactory, as a liberation from the most
painful feelings they had ever experienced. "I have
already mentioned," says the Count, " that those chil-
dren who were too young to work, were placed upon
seats, built round the hall, where other children worked.
This was done in order to inspire them with a desire to
do that, which other children, apparently more favored,
more caressed, and more praised than themselves, were
permitted to do ; and of which, they were obliged to be
idle spectators : and this had the desired effect. As
nothing is so tedious to a child as being obliged to sit
still in the same place for a considerable time; and as
the work which the other more favored children were
engaged in was light and easy, and appeared rather
amusing than otherwise (being the spinning of hemp
and flax, with small light wheels, turned with the foot),
these children who were obliged to be spectators of this
busy and entertaining scene, became so very uneasy in
their situations, and so jealous of those who were per-
mitted to be more active, that they frequently solicited,

ON THE EVIL AFFECTIONS. 301

with the greatest importunity, to be allowed to work ;
and often cried most heartily, if this favor was not in-
stantly granted them. How sweet these tears were to
me, can easily be imagined ; and I always found that the
joy they showed upon being permitted to descend from
their benches, and mix with the working children below,
was equal to the solicitude with which they had de-
manded that favor."

It is remarkable, when the body requires rest, the
mind is very easily amused : after severe toil in hunting,
or war, savages will remain whole days in a state of in-
activity. Any thing which occupies the mind agreeably,
or disagreeably, is an antidote to ennui : severe pain is
not compatible with it. There is a story of a very re-
spectable tradesman, who had retired from business, and
who confessed to a friend of his, that the happiest month
in the year to him, was the month in which his fit of the
gout came on. He was so totally unable to fill up his
time, that even the occupation afforded by pain was a
relief to him.

There is no word in our language to signify the re-
membrance of evil that is past, as there is to signify the
anticipation of the evil which is to come ; no word con-
trasted to this meaning of fear : probably because the
recollection of pain, is not very painful, as being con-
trasted with present ease ; and because such recollec-
tion produces no events, and leads to nothing ; whereas,
fear — the anticipation of evil — is a very remarkable
passion, and immediately leads to a state of activity.
Remorse is not the recollection of any past grief, but the
sensation of present grief, for past faults now irreme-
diable.

It appears, then, from this enumeration of the ungrate-
ful passions, which lead men to act from feelings of aver-
sion, that they are all referable to the memory of evil,
the actual sensation, the future anticipation of it, or the
resentment which any one of these notions is apt to ex-
cite. The remembrance of past evils, produces melan-
choly : the sensation of present evils, if they be referred
to the body, pain ; if to the mind, grief. Envy, hatred,
and malice, are all modifications of resentment, differing

302 LECTURE XXI.

in the causes which have excited that resentment, as
well as in the degree in which it is entertained. Shame
is that particular species of grief, which proceeds from
losing the esteem of our fellow-creatures ; fear, the an-
ticipation of future evils. This is the catalogue of hu-
man miseries and pains ; and it is plain why they have
been added to our nature. By the miseries of the body,
man is controlled within his proper sphere, and learns
what manner of life it was intended he should lead : fear
and suspicion are given to guard him from harm : re-
sentment, to punish those who inflict it ; and by punish-
ment, to deter them. By the pain of inactivity, we are
driven to exertion ; — by the dread of shame, to labor for
esteem. But all these pregnant and productive feelings
are poured into the heart of man, not with any thing that
has the air of human moderation, — not with a measure
that looks like precision and adjustment, — but wildly, lav-
ishly, and in excess. Providence only impels : it makes
us start up from the earth, and do something ; but
whether that something shall be good or evil, is the ar-
duous decision which that Providence has left to us.
You can not sit quietly till the torch is held up to your
cottage, and the dagger to your throat : if you could,
this scene of things would not long be what it now is.
The solemn feeling which rises up in you at such times,
is as much the work of God, as the splendor of the light-
ning is His work ; but that feeling may degenerate into
the fury of a savage, or be disciplined into the rational
opposition of a wise and a good man. You must be af-
fected by the distinctions of your fellow-creatures, — you
can not help it ; but you may envy those distinctions,
or you may emulate them. The dread of shame may
enervate you for every manly exertion, or be the vigi-
lant guardian of purity and innocence. In a strong
mind, fear grows up into cautious sagacity ; grief, into
amiable tenderness. Without the noble toil of moral
education, the one is abject cowardice, the other eternal
gloom ; therefore, there is the good, and there is the
evil ! Every man's destiny is in his own hands. Na-
ture has given us those beginnings, which are the ele-
ments of the foulest vices, and the seeds of every sweet

ON THE EVIL AFFECTIONS. 303

and immortal virtue : but though Nature has given you
the liberty to choose, she has terrified you by her punish-
ments, and lured you by her rewards, to choose aright ;
for she has not only taken care that envy, and coward-
ice, and melancholy, and revenge, shall carry with them
their own curse, — but she has rewarded emulation,
courage, patience, cheerfulness, and dignity, with that
feeling of calm pleasure, which makes it the highest act
of human wisdom to labor for their attainment.

LECTURE XXII

ON THE BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS.

OF THE AGREEABLE AND BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS, AND THEIR ORIGIN.

OF THE NATURAL SIGNS OF THE PASSIONS. OF THE AFFINITY BETWEEN

THE PASSIONS. OF THE EFFECT OF CONTRARY PASSIONS ON EACH

OTHER.

In my last Lecture, I treated on such of the active
powers as had the evil of others for their object ; or
were characterized by the pain which they inflicted on
him, in whose mind they were observed. I come now
to an opposite set of agents, — those which have the good
of others for their object, or are characterized by the
pleasure which they impart to that person, in whom they
are observable. I am aware this division of the prin-
ciples of our nature, which lead us to action, is not per-
fectly accurate ; but it is accurate enough for that
very general view which I propose to take of them, and
which I believe is all that could be tolerated in a Lecture
of this nature.

The origin of these benevolent affections, I should
explain exactly after the same manner as their oppo-
site, — the malevolent feelings : the one proceed from
pain, guided by association ; the other, from pleasure,
guided by association. To trace them up to this orgin,
would be merely to repeat my last Lecture over again,
with the alteration of a single word — pleasure for pain ;
and therefore I shall pass it over, presuming that I have
sufficiently explained myself on that subject.

The pleasing and benevolent affections of our nature,
may be divided into the memory of past good ; the en-
joyment of present good ; the anticipation of future
good ; and benevolence, or a desire to do good to others.

ON THE BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 305

The memory of past good, and the memory of past evil,
are both without a specific name in our language ;
though it should seem, that they require one, as much
as hope or fear, — to which, in point of time, they are
contrasted. We all know that present happiness is very
materially affected by happiness in prospect : but, per-
haps, it is not enough urged as a motive for benev-
olence.

Mankind are always happier for having been happy ;
so that if you make them happy now, you make them
happy twenty years hence by the memory of it. A
childhood passed with a due mixture of rational indul-
gence, under fond and wise parents, diffuses over the
whole of life, a feeling of calm pleasure ; and, in extreme
old age, is the very last remembrance which time can
erase from the mind of man. No enjoyment, however
inconsiderable, is confined to the present moment. A
man is the happier for life, from having made once an
agreeable tour, or lived for any length of time with
pleasant people, or enjoyed any considerable interval of
innocent pleasure : and it is most probably the recollec-
tion of their past pleasures, which contributes to render
old men so inattentive to the scenes before them ; and
carries them back to a world that is past, and to scenes
never to be renewed again.

The recollection of pleasures that are past, is tinged
with a certain degree of melancholy. — as every survey
we take of distant periods of time always is. This gives
it its peculiar characteristic, and distinguishes it from
the animated sensations of present enjoyment : but still,
such recollections is always one of the favorite occupa-
tions of the human mind ; and, to many dispositions, the
most fruitful source of happiness.

In the passion of fear there is always a mixed ex-
pectation of good and evil ; but the evil preponderates.
When all expectation of good ceases, the feeling which
takes place is that of despair. In hope, the expectation
of good preponderates. But there is no name for that
feeling, when all expectation of evil ceases, and the good
appears certain ; — this is the opposite of despair. Upon
this tendency to look forward to future happiness, or

306 LECTURE XXII.

back upon happiness past, is founded a very obvious
distinction in human character : — contemplative men, of
a poetical cast, who are always looking with a kind of
fond enthusiasm upon the past, and contrasting it with
the prospect which lies open before them ; and bustling
active men of the world, whose face is always turned
the way they are going, — in whose mind the memory
of the past has very little share, but who look keenly
forward in the game of life, with all the eagerness of the
most sanguine hope. For my part, I must confess my-
self rather an admirer of the active school, and no great
friend to that pleasant but disqualifying melancholy,
which makes a man believe he has extracted all the
pleasure and enjoyment from human life, before he has
passed half through it, — that no grass is green, except the
grass where he played when he was a boy, — and that
all the pleasures of which a man of genuine feeling and
taste partakes, ought, like the wine he drinks, to be fif-
teen or twenty years old. So far as the contemplation
of the past does not go to put us out of conceit with the
future, it is wise : when it does, it is the idleness of
genius and feeling ; but it is idleness, and is a corruption
which comes from those imperfect moralists, the poets,
who are ever disposed to chant mankind out of the
vigorous cheerfulness of hope, and to infuse, in its stead,
a feeling of past happiness ; which, however calm and
beautiful it may appear, is injurious when it softens and
unstrings the mind, and renders it useless for the
struggles of life.

The different degrees of present enjoyment are signi-
fied by a vast variety of expressions ; from complacency
and satisfaction, to the most exalted rapture. The
general term for the desire to do good to others, is —
benevolence. The most common causes of benevolence
are love, gratitude, and compassion : these are very
ancient subjects, and it is not very easy to say any thing
new upon them ; but there is another source of benevo-
lence, which is not so commonly adverted to, nor so
frequently discussed, — I mean the benevolence excited
by power, and by wealth ; not proceeding from any idea
of profiting by the power or wealth of others, but a dis-

ON THE BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 307

interested, impartial admiration of power and wealth,
and a high degree of benevolence excited toward the
rich, the great, and the fortunate. The operations of
envy are very limited ; we merely envy those immedi-
ately above us, — whose advantages might possibly have
been ours : but the splendor placed entirely out of our
reach, we admire with the fondest enthusiasm.

" When," says Adam Smith, " we consider the con-
dition of the great, in those delusive colors in which the
imagination is apt to paint it, it seems to be almost the
abstract idea of a perfect and happy state. It is the very
state which, in all our waking dreams, and idle reveries,
we had sketched out to ourselves, as the final object of
all our desires. We feel, therefore, a peculiar sympathy
with the satisfaction of those that are in it : we favor all
their inclinations, and forward all their wishes. What
pity, we think, that any thing should spoil and corrupt
so agreeable a situation ! We could even wish them
immortal : and it seems hard to us, that death should, at
last, put an end to such perfect enjoyment. It is cruel,
we think, in Nature to compel them, from their exalted
station, to that humble, but hospitable home which she
has provided for all her children. Great King, live for-
ever! is the compliment, which, after the manner of
Eastern adulation, we should readily make them, if ex-
perience did not teach us its absurdity. Every calamity
that befalls them, every injury that is done them, excites
in the breast of the spectator, ten times more compassion
and resentment than he would have felt, had the same
things happened to other men. It is the misfortunes of
kings only, which afford the proper subject for tragedy.
They resemble, in this respect, the misfortunes of lovers.
Those two situations are the chief that interest us upon
the theater ; because, in spite of all that reason and ex-
perience can tell us to the contrary, the prejudices of
the imagination attach to these two states, a happiness
superior to any other. To disturb, or put an end to,
such perfect enjoyment, seems to be the most atrocious
of all injuries."

Every man's experience, I should think, must have
furnished him with sufficient examples of this kind of

308 LECTURE XXII.

feeling ; — of the examples of men who have nothing to
wish, or to want ; who are utterly incapable of forming
a base or ungenerous sentiment ; but who, with the most
honest and disinterested views, are quite enslaved by the
admiration of greatness. Their benefits can extend to a
few ; but their fortunes interest almost every body. We
are eager to assist them in completing a system of hap-
piness, that approaches so near to perfection ; and we
desire to serve them, for their own sake, without any
recompense, but the honor or the vanity of obliging them.

Upon this disposition, however, to go along with the
passions of the rich and powerful, is founded the dis-
tinction of ranks, and the order of society. Watched
over, and kept within due bounds, it is a sentiment which
leads to the most valuable and important consequences.
But I hope I shall be pardoned for observing, it is a ter-
rible corrupter of moral sentiments, when it destroys
that feeling of modest independence, which is quite as
necessary to the real welfare of society, as a wise sub-
ordination, and difference of rank.

As every thing which excites pain, is apt to excite re-
sentment, so, every thing which excites pleasure, is apt
to excite benevolence. A good countenance, or a good
figure, always conciliates a considerable degree of favor ;
— certainly, very unjustly ; because, no man makes his
own figure, or his own face ; and the distresses of others,
or their merits, are the only legitimate objects of benevo-
lence. The messenger of good news, is always an object
of benevolence. Every one knows, that an officer who
brings home the news of a victory, receives a donation
in money, and is commonly knighted, or promoted.
Strictly speaking, it would be just as equitable to mulct
him of half a year's pay, for bringing home the news of
a defeat, as it would be to present him with £500, for
bringing home the news of a victory : but, if they be not
too great, all men sympathize with the excesses of the
generous and benevolent passions ; while they restrain
the malevolent principles within the most rigid bounds
of justice. That the messenger of disastrous news should
be punished, would appear to the impartial spectator, the
most horrible injustice ; but no one envies his reward to

ON THE BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 309

him who brings good intelligence, though no one pre-
tends to say that he has deserved it. A thousand in-
stances may be observed, where the tendency of pleasure
to excite benevolence, gets the better of justice ; but,
because it is an excess of the right side, it is less noticed,
and less blamed. A witty, agreeable man, with a good
address, may be guilty, I am afraid, of innumerable faults,
which a dull and awkward offender would never be able
to get over. The question always is, "what he is to
us;" not, what he is, in his general relations to society.
If he succeed in giving pleasure, he is almost certain of
exciting benevolence. For this reason it is, that the
little excellences so very often beat the great ; and that
a person who has the dining and supping virtues, so often
plays a more conspicuous part in society, than the great-
est and most august of human beings. " Those amiable
passions," says Adam Smith, "even when they are
acknowledged to be excessive, are never regarded with
aversion. There is something agreeable, even in the
weakness of friendship and humanity. The too tender
mother and the too indulgent father, the too generous
and affectionate friend, may sometimes, perhaps, on ac-
count of the softness of their natures, be looked upon
with a species of pity, in which, however, there is a
mixture of love ; but can never be regarded with hatred
and aversion, nor even with contempt, unless by the
most brutal and worthless of mankind. It is always
with concern, with sympathy, and kindness, that we
blame them for the extravagance of their attachment.
There is a helplessness in the character of extreme
humanity, which more than any thing interests our pity.
There is nothing in itself, which renders it either un-
graceful or disagreeable : we only regret that it is unfit
for the world, because the world is unworthy of it ; and
because it must expose the person who is endowed with
it, as a prey to the perfidy and ingratitude of insinuating
falsehood, and to a thousand pains and uneasinesses
which, of all men, he the least deserves to feel ; and
which generally, too, he is, of all men, the least capable
of supporting. It is quite otherwise with hatred and re-
sentment. Too violent a propensity to these detestable

310 LECTURE XXII.

passions, renders a person the object of universal dread
and abhorrence, who, like a wild beast, ought, we think,
to be hunted out of all civil society."

There is a species of benevolence, which ought to
have an appropriate name ; because names are of im-
mense importance in teaching virtue, and in securing it:
A love of excellence, — a benevolence excited by all
superiority in good, as envy is the hatred excited by
that superiority ; — an honest and zealous admiration of
talent, and of virtue, in whatever corner and nook of
the world they are to be found, — an admiration which
no disparity of situation, no spirit of party, none of the
hateful and disuniting feelings can extinguish. In all
ages of the world, the ablest men have been the first to
express their admiration of excellence ; and, while they
themselves were extending the triumphs of the human
understanding, they have worshiped its powers in other
minds, with veneration bordering upon idolatry. The
best cure for envy, is, to inspire the Young, at a very
early period of their lives, with the deepest respect for
virtue and talent ; to kindle this feeling up into a
passion ; to make their acknowledgment of merit a
gratification of pride ; the homage they pay to it, an
irresistible impulse, — like that which is felt at the
image of sublime beauty, or the spectacle of matchless
strength.

Respect and esteem are low degrees of benevolence,
excited by the severer part of the social virtues ; — as,
justice and integrity ; or, by the prudent virtues : — as,
temperance and caution. Affection is always more per-
manent when it happens to be mingled with respect and
esteem ; because the absence of respect and esteem im-
plies disapprobation, which in time might destroy benev-
olence. A certain mixture of fear, is not unfavorable
to affection ; it must be very small; but,. whether it be
that we get tired with one attitude, and like to be affect-
ed in a different manner, a sprinkling of fear or resent-
ment, upon the sweeter passions, seems to be very well
relished, and perhaps serves to keep them from corrupt-
ing so soon as they otherwise would do. These are the
principal observations which I have to offer on the benev-

ON THE BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 311

olent affections, in particular. We see by them, and
by what I have said on the malevolent passions, that
Nature allures us to a particular system of actions, by
the pleasure she has annexed to them ; and deters
us from the opposite system, by the pains of which
it is productive. She might have punished alone ; but
she punishes and rewards also. As it is true that
there is a grateful flavor in ripe fruit, and an enticing
smell to draw us toward it, it is as true, and as notori-
ous, that there is a real pleasure in benevolence, a
charm in compassion, in candor, and every species of
goodness.

We are guided in our physical aversion by nauseous
and irritating tastes ; and are taught as plainly to love,
and to forgive, by those bitter pangs which hatred and
resentment never fail to leave behind them, when they
are indulged without the restraints of justice. Nothing
which it is important we should do, or should avoid, is
left to the determination of reason alone, but the object
is always secured by aversion or by desire. We do not
eat or drink when reason points out to us to do so, but
when the feelings of nature admonish us : we are urged
by an impetuous feeling to be compassionate, to resist
atrocious injustice, and to do every thing which it is
necessary for the well-being of society that we should
do.

I shall now proceed to make some general observa-
tions on the passions and affections, whether benevolent
or malevolent.

It has been supposed by some writers, that nature has
appropriated some particular signs of the countenance,
o-r gesticulations of the body, to denote some passions,
and other signs for other passions : and that we are born
with a knowledge of these signs ; that is, that, previous
to all experience, the child knows the first smile to be
the sign of pleasure ; and the first frown the sign of pain.
This appears to me to be quite a preposterous notion.
Where the acquisition of any knowledge can be explain-
ed by the usual method of experience, it is very useless,
as well as pernicious, to invent new first principles to
account for it. The child sees the nurse smile when

312 LECTURE XXII.

she is good humored, and therefore connects together
the ideas of smiling and kindness : previous to that, there
is no evidence that the child connects any idea with any
particular change of the countenance. And if we can
suppose a child to have been so educated, that while he
was corrected, the person who punished him took care
to smile ; and while he was praised, it was always ac-
companied with frowns ; to such a child a frown would
be the indication of benevolence, — and a smile, of re-
sentment. But has nature made the signs of the
passions steady and uniform, so that though they are not
known at the birth, they are easily learned and remem-
bered afterward ? The signs of some passions, certain-
ly not. Blushing, which we call the natural sign of
shame, certainly can not exist in a negro : besides, it is a
sign of anger, as well as shame ; and of innocent bash-
fulness, as well as guilty shame ; and of ill health, and
fainting away, and a thousand other affections of mind
and body : so that if you choose to say nature has given
us this, as an indication to others, of what passes in our
minds, it is an extremely dangerous and deceitful guide,
— and as likely to put us out of the way as in it. There
is some fallacy also in this, that whenever we see what
we call the signs of the passions, they are accompanied
with such a plain context, that their interpretation is
wonderfully facilitated. The face of an angry fish-
woman would indicate, I suppose, the signs of the
passions ; but these signs certainly borrow something of
their perspicuity, from the oaths which accompany them ;
and something from the blows she might bestow on the
object of her indignation. However, it can not be denied
that nature has given some very general indications of
the passions ; and the doctrine is only ridiculous, when
pushed to such extremes as some writers have carried
it. If the whole body be taken in, as well as the coun-
tenance, the violent agitation of the limbs in great anger,
and the perfect state of rest under the feeling of compla-
cency and satisfaction, are, no doubt, phenomena which
always follow those affections of mind : nor do I suppose
there is any nation on the face of the earth, which ex-
presses content as we express anger, — or, vice versa,

ON THE BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 313

anger as we do content : at least, no nation, the inhabi-
tants of which express sudden indignation by assuming
a more tranquil position than before ; or perfect content
by every extravagance of gesture and motion. In these
respects, probably, all nations are alike : but the finer
signs may differ ; for in grief, one muscle, or set of
muscles, contracts ; in displeasure, another. But it is
not simply the contraction of this muscle, which is our
sign of the passion ; but generally, the effect which this
contraction produces upon all the other features of the
face : for instance, the first mark of dejection is, that it
makes the eyebrows rise toward the middle of the fore-
head, more than toward the cheek ; but the effect of
this, can not possibly be the same with a fine Italian face,
and with the physiognomy of a Chinese. The general
effect upon the countenance, produced by the contrac-
tion of the same muscle, must be so different, that the
smile of complacency of one race of men, may exactly
correspond to the smile of contempt in another. There-
fore, if nature has made such a language of looks, it is
only vernacular in each particular country ; — it is not
the language of the whole world.

The doctrine of natural signs, taken thus grossly, is
true ; carried to any greater degree of minuteness, will
be found to involve its advocates in a thousand absurdi-
ties.

There is a great affinity between all the good affec-
tions ; and the same affinity between all the malevolent
and painful ones. It is a common thing to become very
fond of those whom we pity ; approbation, long ex-
ercised toward any particular person, generates, at last,
affection. So does esteem ; and still more, admiration.
Every body is in love with great heroes.

The pleasures of the body are favorable to all the
benevolent virtues, — and its pains unfavorable. No
one is so inclined to good nature, courtesy, and gene-
rosity, when cold, wet, and dirty, as after pleasant feed-
ing, and during genial warmth. A courtier, who had a
favor to ask of his master, would never choose a moment
of ear-ache, or a fit of the gout, as the happiest opportu-
ne v of preferring his request. Count Rumford has been

314 LECTUKE XXII.

accused of being too fanciful, because he has advanced
that there is a great connection between cleanliness and
virtue. It is a position, certainly, very capable of being
turned into ridicule ; but if it be seriously examined, and
if the affinity between our feelings be properly attended
to, there can surely be no absurdity in conceiving that
all the filth and pains of body, and little privations, to
which the poor are subjected, must produce an irrita-
tion of mind, infinitely more favorable to the malevolent
than to the good passions.

The inference from these facts is, that one very suc-
cessful method of making people good is to make them
happy ; and that the most effectual preventive of punish-
ment, and the most powerful auxiliary to moral advice,
is to diffuse over their lives those feelings of comfort
and ease, which have an almost mechanical influence in
cherishing the social and benevolent virtues.

That virtue gives happiness, we all know ; but if it be
true, that happiness contributes to virtue, the principle
furnishes us with some sort of excuse for the errors and
excesses of able young men, at the bottom of life, fret-
ting with impatience under their obscurity, and hatching
a thousand chimeras of being neglected and overlooked
by the world. The natural cure for these errors is,
the sunshine of prosperity : as they get happier, they get
better ; and learn, from the respect which they receive
from others, to respect themselves. " Whenever," says
Mr. Lancaster (in his book just published), " I met with
a boy particularly mischievous, I made him a monitor :
I never knew this fail/' The cause for the promotion,
and the kind of encouragement it must occasion, I con-
fess appear rather singular ; but of the effect I have no
sort of doubt.

In the same manner, the bad passions herd together ;
and where one exists in any strength, the others are
much more likely to find an easy reception. Pain, as I
have said before, produces anger ; fear gives birth to
cruelty ; displacency is the parent of revenge : so that
by gaining one good habit, we have the chance of gaining
many others similar to it ; and by contracting one bad

ON THE BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 315

one, of adding very rapidly to the stock of our imper-
fections.

Sometimes it happens that passions, originally differ-
ent from each other, give force to each other. When
we would affect any one very much by a matter of fact,
of which we intend to inform him, it is a common arti-
fice to excite his curiosity, — delay as long as possible to
satisfy it, — and, by that means, raise his anxiety and
impatience to the utmost, before we give him a full in-
sight into the business. We know this curiosity will
precipitate him into the passion which we propose to
raise, and assist its influence upon the mind. Hope is,
in itself, an agreeable passion, and allied to friendship
and benevolence ; yet it is able, sometimes, to increase
anger, when that is the predominant passion. Nothing
communicates more force to our emotions, than an op-
position of contrary passions, — love and revenge ; hatred
and admiration ; gratitude and envy.

" Horror and doubt distract
His troubled thoughts, and from the bottom stir
The hell within him ; for within him hell
He brings, and round about him, nor from hell
One step, no more than from himself, can fly
By change of place : Now conscience wakes despair
That slumber'd ; wakes the bitter memory
Of what he was, what is, and what must be
Worse ; of worse deeds worse sufferings must ensue,
Sometimes toward Eden, which now in his view
Lay pleasant, his griev'd look he fixed sad ;
Sometimes toward heaven, and the full-blazing sun,
Which now sat high in his meridian tower :
Then, much revolving, thus in sighs began."

In all this altercation of passions, those of an opposite
nature, instead of destroying each other, appear to com-
municate to each other additional force ; they all add to
the quantity of the excitement, all violate the state of
rest, and raise the mind into a state of unnatural agita-
tion ; and of such importance in our mental constitution
does it seem, to overcome the state of tranquil apathy,
and such is the proneness of all strong feelings, whether
good or bad, that the progress from any one passion to
another, seems to be quite as easy and natural, as the
progress from tranquillity to passion at all. It cost

316 LECTURE XXII.

Timotheus, I dare say, a great deal of fine playing, to
throw the soul of Alexander into a tumult of feeling ;
but that once accomplished, the bard harped him into
any passion he pleased. However this be true of Tim-
otheus and Alexander, it is certainly true of music in
general. If we are stupid or indolent, we resist its
powers for some time ; but when the twangings, and the
beatings, and the breathings once reach the heart, and
set it moving with all its streams of life, the mind bounds
from grief to joy, from joy to grief, without effort or pang,
but seems rather to derive its keenest pleasure from the
quick vicissitude of passion to which it is exposed. It
is the same with acting. It is difficult to rouse the mind
from an ordinary state, to a dramatic state ; but that
once done, we glide with ease from any passion, to one
the most opposite.

All objects of sense, — every thing that we hear and
see, — excite the passions in an infinitely greater degree
than the same thing conceived by the description of
others. This was the defense always made by the Ro-
man Catholics, for the worship of images, — that it was
difficult to keep up any fervor of devotion by a mere
speculative notion. It required the forcible impression
of an object of sense, to invigorate the passion, and keep
it alive. This is the use of colors, in the day of battle :
when the carnage becomes very dreadful, the words duty
and country, and every other speculative notion that
can be gathered together, are often of very cold opera-
tion ; — but the actual sight of their colors in danger, will
do more in an instant, than all the stimulating ideas
which the whole resources of language can present to
men. An appeal is made to the passions through the
senses, and such appeals are always the most irresistible,
particularly with the lowest class, who have fewer ideas
of reflection, in comparison with their ideas of sense.

A thing, I am very sorry to say, is sometimes more
pleasant because it is forbidden. This is because the
love of power is excited by the prohibition ; — and any
one excitement always increases any other excitement.
The efforts made to surmount the obstacle, rouse the
spirits and enliven the passions. I forget what comedy

ON THE BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 317

it is in, where a lady, who is about to be married with
the consent of her parents, refuses to give her hand to
the husband in the usual manner, but insists upon the
apparatus being provided, and that she should be stolen
away, according to the strictest etiquette of clandestine
marriages.

Uncertainty, has the same effect as opposition. The
agitation of the thought ; the quick turn which it makes,
from one view to another ; the variety of passions which
succeed each other, according to the different views : all
these produce an emotion in the mind ; and this emotion
transfuses itself into the predominant passion. Security,
on the contrary, diminishes the passions ; the mind,
when left to itself, immediately languishes ; and, in order
to preserve its ardor, must be every moment supported
by a new flow of passion.

Nothing more powerfully excites any affection, than
to conceal some part of its object, by throwing it into
shade ; which, at the same time that it shows us enough
to prepossess us in favor of the object, leaves still some
work for the imagination. Besides, that obscurity is al-
ways attended with a kind of uncertainty, the effort
which the fancy makes to complete the idea rouses the
spirits, and gives an additional force to the passion.

" The other shape,
If shape it might be call'd that shape had none
Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb, —
Or substance might be call'd that shadow seem'd,
For each seem'd either, — black it stood as night,
Fierce as ten Furies, terrible as Hell,
And shook a dreadful dart : what seem'd his head,
The likeness of a kingly crown had on.

The undaunted fiend what this might be admired ;
Admired, not fear'd : God and his Son except,
Created thing naught valued he, nor shunn'd."

As despair and security, though contrary, produce tne
same effects ; so, absence is observed to have contrary
effects, and, in different circumstances, either increases
or diminishes our affections. Rochefoucault has re-
marked, that " absence destroys weak passions, but in-
creases strong ; as the wind extinguishes a candle, and

318 LECTURE XXII.

blows up a fire." Long absence naturally weakens our
idea, and diminishes the passion ; but where the affec-
tion is so strong and lively as to support itself, the un-
easiness arising from absence increases the passion, and
gives it fresh force and influence. The imagination
and affections have together a close union ; the vivacity
of the former, gives force to the latter : hence, the pros-
pect of any pleasure with which we are acquainted, af-
fects us more than any other pleasure which we may
own to be superior, but of the nature of which we are
wholly ignorant: of the one we can form a particular
and determinate idea, the other we conceive under the
general notion of pleasure.

When we apply ourselves to the performance of any
action, or the conception of any object, to which we are
not accustomed, there is a certain unpliableness in the
faculties, and a difficulty in the spirits, to move in the
new direction ; hence, every thing that is new is most
affecting, and gives us either more pleasure, or pain, than
what, strictly speaking, should naturally follow from it.
When it often returns upon us, the novelty wears off;
the passion subsides, the hurry of the spirits is over, and
we survey the object with tranquillity and ease.

Any satisfaction we have recently enjoyed, and of
which the memory is fresh and perfect, operates on the
will with more violence than another, of which the traces
are decayed and obliterated. Contiguity in time and
place, has an amazing effect upon the passions. An
enormous globe of fire, which fell at Pekin, would not
excite half the interest which the most trifling phenom-
enon could give birth to nearer home. I am persuaded
many men might be picked out of the streets, who, for
1000 guineas paid down, would consent to submit to a
very cruel death, in fifteen years from the time of receiv-
ing the money. This, for the main, is a wise provision
of nature ; for the progress of life, generally speaking,
and the order of the world, depend upon an attention to
present objects : but this, like every other moral pro-
vision, is given without any limit or adjustment ; and it
becomes the great object of wisdom and of virtue to re-
strain it within proper limits. By all that we can look

ON THE BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 319

upon an object of sense, and (admitting its capacity of
affording present pleasure) steadily reckon up its influ-
ence upon future happiness ; by all that, are we ad-
vanced in power of thought, and rectitude of action.
The great labor is, to subdue the tyranny of present im-
pression ; to hold down desire and aversion, with a firm
grasp, till we have time to see where they would drive
us. The men who can do this, are the men who do all
the praiseworthy actions that are done in the world ; —
who write lasting books, make treaties, lead armies, and
govern kingdoms ; or, if their life be private, live pleas-
antly and safely. Those men, on the contrary, who can
acquire no knowledge, enjoy no praise, and feel no peace-
ful happiness, seem only to have lived to destroy the
moral order of the world, and dishonor the works of God.

LECTURE XXIII

ON THE PASSIONS.

EFFECTS OF PASSIONS OX THE BODY, AND OF SURPRISE ON THE PASSIONS.

OF WHAT IS SAID ABOUT RULING PASSIONS. OF TEMPER J HUMOR ;

NATURE. THE DIFFERENT DEGREES OF THE PASSIONS, AND PARTICULARLY

OF THE PASSIONS IN THEIR LOW DEGREES. HOW FAR A STATE OF PAS-
SION IS AGREEABLE TO THE MIND. THE EFFECTS OF PASSIONS AND TAL-
ENTS ON EACH OTHER.

The powerful part which the passions were intended
to act in our constitution, is clearly evinced by those
rapid and dreadful effects which they frequently commit
upon the body. Instances are very numerous of persons
who have been driven mad by joy, — who have dropped
down dead from anger or grief. Great numbers of people
die every year, pining away from deranged circum-
stances, or from disgrace, or disappointed affection, in a
state which we call broken-hearted. The passions kill
like acute diseases, and like chronic ones too. Every
physician who knows any thing of the science, has seen
innumerable cases of all the disorders of the body, origi-
nating from disturbed emotion, and totally inaccessible
to all the remedies by which mere animal infirmities
are removed. Dr. Gregory, of Edinburgh, in his " Lec-
tures on the Practice of Medicine," mentions so singular
an instance of the effects of joy, that, but for such highly
respectable authority, I should hardly think it credible.
He was sent for in the course of his medical practice, to
a family in the country, consisting of a mother and two
daughters. They had recently come to a very large,
and a very sudden accession of fortune. Upon his arri-
val at the house, he was met by the eldest daughter,
who, with a great appearance of agitation, cautioned

ON THE PASSIONS. 321

him against her mother and sister ; and informed him
they were both mad. He very soon perceived that this
lady was so herself; and upon visiting the other two,
perceived they were not a jot better. The truth turned
out to be, that their astonishment and joy was so great,
upon being raised from poverty to extreme opulence, —
they had so many plans of equipage ; and so many dis-
putes whether they should go to Bath before they went
to London, or London before they visited Bath, — that
the small share of reason they ever could have possessed,
fell a sacrifice to the agitation. Independent of the
mere magnitude of the passion, a distinct effect is pro-
duced by the suddenness of it; or rather, perhaps, it
would be clearer to say, that all the passions are consid-
erably increased by surprise, and diminished by expec-
tation. To be thoroughly informed of the nature and
extent of any danger, to which we are about to be ex-
posed, — to have leisure to summon up resolution, and
invent resources, — diminishes very materially the feel-
ing of that danger : a sudden exposure to it, might com-
pletely overset the mind. In the same manner with
grief. A long struggle with death, and a finely-gradu-
ated decay, familiarize us to the loss of our friends : the
countenance which grows paler day by day, and the
form which every hour emaciates, inure us so to the pang
of separation, that we meet with calm resignation a mis-
fortune, which, suddenly communicated, would bear
down all authority of reason, and leave, perhaps, the
mind itself a mere ruin beneath its pressure. In this re-
spect, there is a great analogy between body and mind.
It is not difficult, by gradations, to accustom the body
to any thing ; while it receives the most violent injuries
from changes that are sudden. This dread of sudden
vicissitude, admits of no explanation ; it is one of the
means by which the powers of man are limited, and he
is controlled within the sphere in which he at present
moves. It is curious to observe the very little time
necessary to the mind for its changes ; and how short a
preparation obviates the worst and most dangerous ef-
fects of the passions. To come into a room suddenly,
and say such a person is dead, might very likely kill the

322 LECTURE XXIII.

person to whom it was addressed : but " he is not quite
so well as could be wished ; there is some little danger ;
he was getting worse," and so on ; — by the presentation
of a mournful idea, which the mind can bear, and by the
gradual increase of it up to the point which you wish to
establish, though you can never prevent the feelings
of nature, you blunt them, and deter their excesses from
acting so tremendously upon the infirmities of the body.
Any one passion may act upon the mind, when it is
in one of these three states : — first, when it is under the
influence of a similar passion ; next, when it is under the
influence of an opposite passion ; next, when it is in a
state of rest, and under the influence of no passion at
all. For instance, I may receive such news as would
overwhelm me with grief, and, at the moment previous
to my receiving it, I may be in a state of joy, or sorrow,
or in a state of indifference ; the question is, in which
of these three states will the new passion produce its
greatest effects ? Is the grief greater for being added to
grief, or being contrasted to previous joy ? or from its
falling on the mind when it was in a passionless state ?
If the two states of grief and joy can not coexist, so that
they neutralize each other, then the grief is always more
intense from the contrast. If a father were to learn that
his son had distinguished himself very much in battle,
and were then to be told, in the midst of his joy, that
his son had died of his wounds, the joy and the grief
stand so opposed to each other, that the one would go
rather to inflame, than to diminish the other. " Dead at
the very moment that I expected to see him return with
the highest reputation ! in the midst of all the congratu-
lations I was making to myself for his safety !" — these
are the ideas with which a parent would naturally exas-
perate his misfortune. But if the joy and the grief were
in no wise related together, then the joyful passion would
neutralize the sad one. To hear that my fortune was
materially diminished, would affect me less, if I had just
recovered my health, or had just gained a distinguished
reputation. I should set off the good against the evil,
and bring my mind to a kind of equilibrium of feeling
and passion.

ON THE PASSIONS. 323

Some men possess a much stronger tendency to par-
ticular passions than to others, — and passions, like tal-
ents, are transmitted by birth from parent to child : some
say, acquired by early imitation ; but the analogy of
animals rather leads us to suppose that birth influences
the qualities of the mind, as well as the limbs and gen-
eral figure. All the foals of an ill-tempered horse are
very often as vicious as the sire, whom they have never
seen. Cock-fighters are extremely attentive to the
breed of their fowls : a valiant cock has his eggs sent
about as presents, that they may be hatched into heroes ;
and these heroes have certainly had no communication
with their parents, and no opportun ity of forming their
manners upon such models of valor.

It is very often (not always) true, that there is a
ruling passion which obscures or absorbs all the rest.
In some minds, two or three of the great passions appear
to hold a divided empire. In others, there is such a
want of prominence in the active principles, that it is
extremely difficult to say which governs, — which obeys.
It is, however, an extremely important circumstance in
the investigation of character, to ascertain what are the
paramount motives, by which any human being is habit-
ually impelled ; and the most complicated phenomena,
after such a key to their interpretation is once obtained,
become clear and comprehensible. We speak of a man's
disposition according to the predominance of good or
bad passions in his nature.

There are three expressions in our language, which,
because they refer to the kind and degree of the pas-
sions, require some explanation in this place ; — Temper,
Humor , and Nature. When used with adjectives of
blame and praise, temper and humor mean nearly the
same thing. A good-humored person, or a good-tem-
pered person, is one in whom the intentions and actions
of others do not easily excite bad passions, — who does
not mistake the motives by which the rest of the world
are actuated toward him. A good-natured person is a
man of active benevolence ; who seeks to give pleasure
to others in little things. Good-temper measures how a
man is acted upon by others : good -nature measures

324 LECTURE XXIII.

how he acts for others. The presumption is, that the two
excellences would be found uniformly conjoined to-
gether ; that a man who was passively benevolent,
would be actively so too : but the reverse is often the
case in practice. There many men of inviolable temper,
who never exert themselves to do a good-natured thing,
from one end of the year to the other ; and many in the
highest degree irritable, who are perpetually employed
in little acts of good-nature. It must be observed, that
all the three words refer only to the little vices and
virtues. Repeated fits of peevishness, constitute ill-
temper. Violent hatred, and deadly revenge, require
and receive a much graver name. To do little favors
to others, and contrive small gratifications and amuse-
ments for them, is the province of a good-natured man.
A more exalted and difficult benevolence immediately
assumes a more dignified appellation, and ceases to be
called good-nature. To bring a large twelfth-cake to a
child, is good-nature ; to give him education, support,
and protection, though he have no natural claim upon
you, is compassion, and the summit of good feeling.

Of all the affections, there are various degrees. There
is that degree in which it is scarcely perceptible ; there
is that calm state of the affection, where it leaves the
reason unbiased ; and there is that last, and most
violent degree of it, which assumes the name of passion.
This is quite as true of the malevolent, as of the benev-
olent affections. Resentment may be calm, or it may
be furious. There is a silent apprehension, and a fear
exhibiting itself in the most acute paroxysms. Now, it
seems evident that reason, in a strict sense (meaning by
that term the judgment of truth and falsehood), can
never be any motive to the will, and can have no influ-
ence, but so far as it touches some passion or affection,
What is commonly, and in a popular sense, called reason,
and is so much recommended in moral discourses, is
nothing but a general and calm passion, which takes a
comprehensive and distant view of its object, and actu-
ates the will, without exciting any sensible emotion. A
man, we say, is diligent from reason ; that is, from a
calm desire of riches and fortune. A man adheres to

ON THE PASSIONS. 3 k ^5

justice from reason ; that is, from a calm regard to
public good, and to a character with himself and others.
For observe all that reason can do ; reason only enables
us to judge of propositions. This man is miserable ;
this man is going on in a way which will terminate in
his complete ruin ; by a prudent set of measures, I will
save and convert him. By your reason you prognosti-
cate his future good ; but the motive which induces you
to plan his extrication, has nothing to do with reason.
H God have not planted the benevolent passions in your
heart, you may go on reasoning and anticipating to all
eternity, without the slightest disposition to act. All
motives come from the passions ; all means and instru-
ments, from reason.

The same objects which recommend themselves to
reason, in this sense of the word, are also the objects of
passion when they are nearer to us ; and acquire some
other advantage, either of external situation, or con-
gruity to our internal temper. Evil near at hand pro-
duces aversion, and is the object of passion ; at a great
distance, we say it is avoided from reason. The
common error of metaphysicians has been in ascribing
the direction of the will entirely to one of those princi-
ples, and supposing the other to have no influence. In
general, we may observe that both these principles
operate on the will ; and what we call strength of mind,
implies the prevalence of the calm passions above the
violent ; though we may easily observe that there is no
person so constantly possessed of this virtue, as never on
any occasion to yield to the solicitations of violent desire
and affection : and from these variations of temper,
proceed the great difficulty of deciding with regard to
the future actions and resolutions of men, where there is
any contrariety of motives and passions.

Without some calm passion, — some degree of some
species of desire, — the mind could not long endure.
Such a state is probably the state of fatuity, or idiotism.
A man in such a condition, would stop in the middle of
a street, and remain there all his life. Some degree of
passion, therefore, is not only pleasing, but necessary.
Whenever this stimulus of passion does not exist in due

326 LECTURE XXIII.

proportion, we feel ennui : when there is a just degree
of passion, and that passion directs us to objects easily-
attainable, we feel contented, — for content is not the
absence of calm passion, but the constant facility of
gratifying it without too much difficulty, and without
subsequent inconvenience. Not only is a state of calm
passion pleasant, but a state of violent emotion appears
to have its allurements. Young persons love danger for
danger's sake. School-boys climb walls and trees be-
cause it is agreeable to them to be afraid of tumbling ; —
and this explains the pleasure of mischief. A school-boy
flings a stone into a window, and, running to some
distance, stops to enjoy the violent rage of the person
whose window has been broken : the moderate risk he
runs, is a very pleasant excitement to him. Nay, he
will tie a rope across a place where he knows people are
to pass, even where he can not wait to see them tumble :
the mere imagination of so much terror and confusion,
fills him with pleasant feelings, and he is convulsed with
laughter at the very thoughts of it.

Young men turn soldiers and sailors from the love of
being agitated ; and for the same reason, country gentle-
men leap over stone walls. This — and not avarice — is
the explanation of gaming. Men who game, are, in
general, very little addicted to avarice ; but they court
the conflict of passions which gaming produces, and
which guards them from the dullness and ennui to
which they would otherwise feel themselves exposed.
The love of emotion is the foundation of tragedy; and
so pleasant is it to be moved, that we set off' for the ex-
press purpose of looking excessively dismal for two hours
and a half, interspersed with long intervals of positive
sobbing. The taste for emotion may, however, become
a dangerous taste ; and we should be very cautious how
we attempt to squeeze out of human life, more ecstasy
and paroxysm than it can well afford. It throws an air
of insipidity over the greater part of our being, and
lavishes on a few favored moments the joy which was
given to season our whole existence. It is to act like
school-boys, — to pick the plums and sweetmeats out of
the cake, and quarrel with the insipidity of the batter;

ON THE PASSIONS. 327

whereas the business is, to infuse a certain share of
flavor throughout the whole of the mass ; and not so to
habituate ourselves to strong impulse and extraordinary
feeling, that the common tenor of human affairs should
appear to us incapable of amusement, and devoid of
interest. The only safe method of indulging this taste
for emotion, is by seeking for its gratification, not in
passion, but in science, and all the pleasures of the
understanding ; by mastering some new difficulty ; by
seeing some new field of speculation open itself before
us ; by learning the creations, the divisions, the connec-
tions, the designs, and contrivances of nature. If we
seek relief from the lassitude of common thoughts and
common things, these are the only emotions which at
once are innocent, inexhaustible, and sublime.

It is impossible not to suppose that there is a con-
siderable degree of connection between the intellectual,
and active powers ; that talents must produce a striking
influence upon affections, and affections upon talents.
The extremes are very easily perceived ; there is a
degree of energy in the active powers, utterly incompati-
ble with any exercise of the understanding at all. In
paroxysms of rage and grief, not only the arrangement
of ideas, but even the utterance of words, becomes quite
impossible : and on the opposite side, it can not be
conceived how the understanding comes to act at all ;
how it does any thing more than merely perceive, with-
out the influence of some desire or affection ; however
low and however calm that degree may be. The influ-
ence of passion upon the understanding, will, of course,
be very different, according to the different parts of the
understanding to which it is applied. To all efforts of
the imagination, a certain degree of passion appears
highly favorable ; — anger quickens wit, multiplies images
and words, and gives a flow and a fecundity, of which
the mind is utterly destitute in its ordinary state. Every
man is eloquent in speaking of himself, from the direct
influence which his passions have upon his imagination.
The finest and most affecting parts of Cicero, are always
about himself; every passion of his great mind, seems to
be at work, in that noble conclusion of the second

328 LECTURE XXIII.

philippic, which afterward cost him his life. " But do
you, Antony," he says, " look to yourself; and I will
confess what are my principles : I have defended the
republic when I was young, I will not desert it now I am
old : I have despised the sword of Catiline, and the
sword of Antony shall not alarm me. Most willingly
would I sacrifice this body, if, by my death, the liberty
of Rome could be established. Did not I say twenty
years ago, in this very senate, that when a man perished
who had reached the dignity of consul, he could not be
said to have perished prematurely? And do you think,
now that old age is come upon me, I will retract or deny
this doctrine ? Conscript fathers, I wish for death ; I
have gained all that the republic can bestow ; I have
performed all that it can require ! Let death come
when it will, I am prepared to meet it. I have only two
things to implore : first, that my country may deal out to
all her children the punishment or the reward they
merit ; next, that when I do die, I may leave the Romans
free. If the Gods grant me this, there is nothing else
which they can bestow."

No one could say of Mr. Burke, that he did not write
with passion ; and whenever his passions are awakened,
his imagination appears to be fecundated : he is meta-
phorical at all times ; but when he feels strongly, every
thing is simile, allusion, and metaphor ; and these are
poured out, in a manner quite natural ; as if the habitual
effect of passion in him, were, to conjure up all this
splendid imagery, and to give unusual promptitude to
the current of his ideas.

But, though passion always comes in aid of a fine
imagination, it very often happens that we meet with
imagination without passion or feeling, — and feeling and
passion without imagination.

There is a beautiful passage in the book of Ruth,
which, though full of feeling, has no imagination. "And
Ruth said to her mother, Naomi, Entreat me not to leave
thee : for whither thou goest, I will go ; and where thou
lodgest, I will lodge ; thy people shall be my people, and
thy God shall be my God : where thou diest I will die,
and there will I be buried : the Lord do so to me. and

ON THE PASSIONS, 329

more also, if aught but death part thee and me !" No-
thing can be more beautiful, but there is no imagination
in it. If Cowley, or any of the poets of Cowley's school,
had had to express the same degree of affection, he would
most probably have found several reasons why the affec-
tion of Ruth for Naomi resembled lightning, smoke, air,
fire, water, and clouds ; what properties it had in com-
mon with the shooting of a meteor ; and in what way it
might be compared both to morning and evening, and
the middle of the day : in short, he would have displayed
a great deal of imagination totally barren of all passion.

To inventive reasoning, the passions are very favor-
able. The resources which men exhibit in shipwrecks,
and on desert islands, are perfectly astonishing. In the
attempt to escape from prison, as much has been done
with a rusty nail, as the best artisan could hardly have
effected with the best tools, in any ordinary state of ex-
citement of mind. In short, the process of invention in
reasoning, is exactly the same as the process of invention
in poetry. In passion, the mind dwells intensely on one
object ; all the ideas related to it, occur from associa-
tion ; and we seize upon the epithet, the argument, or
the mechanical invention, which we judge the best.
Passion aids the understanding, by multiplying the asso-
ciations. It was precisely the same effect which passion
produced, that aided Cicero when he attacked Antony ;
Archimedes, when he defended Syracuse ; and Baron
Trenck, when he broke out of prison. It may be doubted,
whether quick and strong passions are not inimical to
those circumspect habits of mind, w r hich are necessary
to a good taste ; for I should conceive that, in the ac-
quirement of a fine taste, first emotions must be very
often checked, and the mind kept in a state of suspense,
till the relation of each part to the whole has been ex-
amined, and the effect of surprise properly allowed for.

There is a state of mind, however, in which it is as
important to keep a crowd of ideas out of the mind, as
it is at others to excite them ; and, at such periods, the
presence of any lively passion must be detrimental.
When we wish to fix the attention upon one object, to
ascertain all its properties, and the relations it bears to

330 LECTURE XXIII.

some other object, nothing can be more unfavorable to
such habits of accurate observation, than that crowd of
slightly related ideas, with which the passions are apt to
people the understanding.

With respect to the general connection between pas-
sions and talents, no rule can be laid down, by which the
existence of the one is with any certainty inferred from
the existence of the other. Great passions may coexist
with a very low state of talent ; and great talents with
a very low state of passion. Nor does it by any means
appear, that the cold-blooded race of men, are intended
to act a less conspicuous part on the theater of the world,
than those whose passions are the most acute, and the
most irritable. The liberty of Europe, is at present
threatened by a man of the most impetuous passions ;
the independence of America, was established by a man
who certainly had his passions in the most perfect com-
mand. Alexander was a madman ; Augustus, calm
and artful. When we compare together the retarding,
and the impelling part of the machinery, it would be
crude and hasty language, to give one any preference
over the other. If there be any man, who has great pas-
sions which he can command, and obey, according to
circumstances, such a man must in the end be greater
than all others of equal talents.

The passions, I have before stated to be affected by
every circumstance which affects the body ; as age,
health, climate, and race : they are affected by govern-
ment, by rank, by sex, by education, by the degree of
refinement of the age, by solitude, by society, and by
habit. In fact, the passions are acted upon by every
outward and inward circumstance ; but these are the
principal. It is very easy to conceive, that governments
absolutely under the control of the people, and abso-
lutely under the control of one person, must have a
strong tendency to encourage different passions : that
the same circumstance must be true of commercial, and
of military nations ; that where the youth of any country
hear nothing spoken of, at their first coming into life,
but the acquisition of property, and perceive that every
one increases in estimation as he advances in opulence,

ON THE PASSIONS. 331

it is highly probable that the active principles by which
he will be controlled, will be of a very different nature
from what they would have been, if he had been nursed
in the tumult and glory of arms. Civilization must have
a prodigious effect upon the passions ; it must supersede
the necessity of revenge, by strengthening the power of
law ; whereas, in barbarous times, a man has only his
own malevolent passions to trust to for protection.
Courtesy, and the appearance of benevolence, are
fashionable ; reputation becomes valuable, and a certain
degree of good faith is more generally diffused.

The most considerable difference between the active
powers of the sexes, is, that women are more generally
under the influence of fear; and they rather avoid
shame, than seek glory. They are probably, also, more
under the influence of the benevolent feelings than men,
because, in the distribution of duties, a great number of
benevolent offices devolve upon them ; and because they
are exempted from all those which require an immediate
exertion of the malevolent passions, or at least a suppres-
sion of the benevolent ones. It is the duty of men to
cut off limbs, hang criminals, and massacre the enemies
of their country, whenever they are able : they are
soldiers, judges, and physicians : — women are carefully
protected from every situation which requires the sacri-
fice of a single instant of benevolence. Speaking very
generally and grossly, the effect of solitude is to cherish
great virtues, and to destroy little ones. " Society,"
says Adam Smith, "is the best preservative of that
equal and happy temper, which is so necessary to self-
satisfaction and enjoyment : men of retirement and
speculation, who are apt to sit brooding at home over
either grief or resentment, though they may often have
more humanity, more generosity, and a nicer sense of
honor, yet seldom possess that equality of temper which
is so common among men of the world."

The difference of the passions, and the different pro-
portions in which the same passions are measured out to
different individuals, form the leading and most prom-
inent diversities in human character. Men differ from
each other very materially, as their desires are negative

332 LECTURE XXIIL

or positive ; — as they wish to obtain praise, or to avoid
blame. In the first class are the vain, the ambitious, and
the active part of the human race : the last contains men
of reserve, of humility, and of caution ; who, provided
they do not incur ridicule and disgrace, are well con-
tented to leave to others the contest for distinction.

Men differ, as their desires are vehement or weak.
Some can hardly be said to have any desires at all;
others would overturn kingdoms, and mingle heaven
with earth, to effect the least of all their desires.

Another variety in human character is, the length or
continuation of desire, which, united with vehemence of
desire, makes, I believe, what we call strength of char-
acter ; for we could not deny to any man that attribute,
who wished any thing vehemently, and continued in the
pursuit of it steadily ; at least, if it was his habit to feel
and act after this manner. Then again, we may ob-
serve a striking dissimilarity among men, as they are
governed by near or distant motives ; or, in other words,
as they are under the influence of calm, or strong pas-
sions. We distinguish, also, between warm and cold
dispositions, that is, between different degrees of the
benevolent feelings, — as we do between different degrees
of irascibility, in the epithets irritable and patient. Some
men are extremely benevolent in little things, and dis-
tinguish themselves by their politeness ; others have the
great virtues, and not the lesser ones.

A disposition to fear, or to hope, makes two different
classes of men ; so does the place, or degree, in which a
man puts himself, with regard to his fellow-creatures.
It has often been said, that, where the passions are the
most difficult to be roused, they are the most terrible
when they are roused. It is most probable that this
opinion is not quite so true as it is supposed to be, from
the deception which, in this case, must necessarily be
exercised upon the imagination by the contrast. Who-
ever were to see a beautiful young lady in a violent
rage, would be apt to think it much more excessive and
violent, from the mere novelty and surprise of the thing,
than if he had beheld a captain of a man-of-war in a sim-
ilar situation of mind. Again, it must be remembered,

ON THE PASSIONS. 333

that the causes which throw a person of a mild disposi-
tion into a fit of rage, must be very strong, to commit
such an outrage upon the customary habits of his na-
ture ; whereas, an equal degree of indignation may easily
be produced in a more irritable disposition, by a cause
less grave and important. But, the degree of provoca-
tion being given, and the effects of novelty allowed for,
it is not easy to see, why the passions of a phlegmatic
man, once roused, should be stronger and more difficult
to be allayed than those of one more accustomed to pas-
sion. One solution, indeed, there is, which has some ap-
pearance of plausibility. Men accustomed, for instance,
to anger, may often have suffered from anger ; though
unable to check the passion entirely, they have learned a
certain degree of control over its wildest excesses, and
are not, at those moments, quite so unable to govern
themselves as they appear to be : but, where passion is
new, it is unsuspected, unaccustomed to any check, and
much more likely to hurry en to excesses, because its
excesses are not feared, and^hardly known. There is a
certain analogy to this in drunkenness. Professed reg-
ular drunkards preserve a certain glimmering of reason,
and are seldom very extravagant in their behavior:
drunkenness in a person unaccustomed to it is often per-
fect madness.

Such are a few of the most striking phenomena of the
passions, which move the world, and make up the secret
life and inward existence of man ; for what we do see
and know with certainty of any human creature, is,
whether he is lodged in marble or in clay, — whether
down or straw is his bed, — whether he is clothed in the
purple of the world, or molders in rags. The inward
world, the man within the breast, the dominion of thought,
the region of passion, — all this we can not penetrate : we
can never tell how a kind and benevolent heart can
cheer a desperate fortune ; the comfort which the lowest
man may feel in a spotless mind, — the firmness which a
man derives from loving justice, — the glory with which
he rebukes the bad emotion, and bids his passions be still.
Therefore, not to the accidents of life, but to the foun-
tains of thought, and to the springs of pleasure and pain,

334 LECTURE XXIII.

should the efforts of man be directed to rear up such
sentiments as shall guard us from the pangs of envy ; to
make us rejoice in the happiness of every sentient being ;
to feel too happy ourselves for hatred and resentment;
to forget the body, or to enslave it forever ; seeking to
purify, to exalt, and to refine our nature. This is the
rigid discipline of moral philosophy, which, rigid as it is,
is so beautiful and so good, that without it no condition
of life is tolerable ; with it, none wretched, sordid, or
mean.

LECTURE XXIV.

ON THE DESIRES.

Dr. Reid, in his essay upon the Active Powers, re-
marks of our desires, that they have, all of them, things,
not persons, for their object. They neither imply any
good nor ill affection towards any person, nor even tow-
ard ourselves. They can not, therefore, with propriety
be called either selfish or social. But there are various
principles of actions in men, which have persons for
their immediate objects, and imply, in their very nature,
our being well or ill affected to some person, or at least
to some animated being. " Such principles," says Dr.
Reid, " I call by the general name of affections ; whether
they dispose us to do good or hurt to others." This
method, by which passions are referred to persons,
and desires to things, has been also adopted by Mr.
Dugald Stewart, in his " Outlines of Moral Philosophy,"
without any alteration. But if desire concern only
things, why is the love of esteem classed among the
desires ? for that, surely, respects persons ; and why are
joy and grief classed among the passions without any
limitation ? for grief may be occasioned by the loss of
£20,000., as by the loss of an aunt or a cousin. There
is a grief occasioned by persons, and a grief occasioned
by things ; but both Dr. Reid and Mr. Stewart would
not scruple to call grief — let its cause be what it would
— by the name of passion. The first object, surely, in
all investigations of this nature, is to ascertain in what
sense such words are actually used : and then, after
showing that such uses are unsatisfactory or vague, to
propose that deviation from the established meaning,
which, being the most useful, is the least violent. In

336 LECTURE XXIV.

chemistry, mineralogy, or any science remote from com-
mon life, the popular language which respects them, is
commonly not only useless, but it conduces to error ;
and is better kept out of view : but in the language of
feeling, words are of great importance, because every
man feels they are the repositories of human judgments,
upon a subject on which all men are, more or less, cal-
culated to judge. It will appear, I believe, that, in all
this business of feelipg, there are three things which have
particularly attracted our notice : — the violent perturba-
tion or derangement the mind suffers ; the wish to do
something, or obtain something, with which that pertur-
bation is accompanied ; and the cause from which that
perturbation is derived.

" Achilles heard : with grief and rage opprest,
His heart swell' d high, and labor'd in his breast ;
Distracting thoughts by turns his bosom ruled,
Now fired by wrath, and now by reason cool'd :
That prompts his hand to draw the deadly sword,
Force through the Greeks, and pierce their haughty lord ;
This whispers soft, his vengeance to control,
And calm the rising tempest of the soul."

In this, and in every other picture of extreme passion,
it is to the perturbation itself, its causes, and its conse-
quences, that we direct our inquiry. Whenever the
emotion proceeds from a bodily cause, and is accom-
panied with a wish to act, or to obtain, we give to that
emotion the name of appetite ; — as in the instance of hun-
ger and thirst. Here the mind is thrown into a state of
emotion, — the body is the cause of that emotion ; and it
is accompanied by a wish to obtain, and to act. No
one would now call hunger and thirst, passions ; or im-
agine that the celebrated authoress of the Plays on the
Passions, is bound, in the prosecution of her task, to bring
forward a hero who has not eaten any thing for forty-
eight hours, and to conclude such a play with the ca-
tastrophe of a dinner or a supper.

We say a desire for food, as well as an appetite for
food ; but in speaking of the desires, and the appetites, we
should hardly class together the desire of knowledge, and
the desire of drink. It seems generally agreed, where

ON THE DESIRES. 337

any kind of precision is required, to call the bodily emo-
tions by the name of appetites ; and the mental ones, by
those of passion or desire.

When the cause, then, of the emotion is the body, —
and when it is accompanied with an active tendency, it
is called appetite ; when it is not, it receives simply the
name of bodily pain or pleasure. We may say meta-
phorically, that gout, rheumatism, and lumbago, are the
unpleasant passions of the body ; that warmth and re-
pletion are its agreeable passions.

Whenever we see any emotion of the mind which has
not the body for its cause, we call it desire, if it lead to
action ; — passion, if it do not. No one calls grief and
joy, hope and fear, by the name of desire. To suffer
from the desire of grief, is nonsense ; to suffer from the
passion of grief, is the customary phrase. They are not
called desires, because they are not the immediate causes
of action. We say the desire of knowledge, the desire
of esteem, the desire of power, because they are emotions
leading immediately to action. Some emotions we call
indiscriminately by the name of passion or desire : but
this exactly confirms what I say ; for when we speak of
the passion of revenge, we are more particularly think-
ing of the perturbation the mind endures ; when we
speak of revenge as a desire, we have in mind the ten-
dency to action which it occasions : therefore, if I am
right, the idea of referring desires to things, and passions
to persons, is quite unfounded ; and this will turn out to
be somewhere near their meaning.

Appetites are emotions of mind, proceeding from a
bodily cause, and leading immediately to action : there
are also animal pains and pleasures, which are emotions
of the mind proceeding from a bodily cause, and not lead-
ing immediately to action. — Passions are emotions of the
mind, not proceeding from a bodily cause, and not lead-
ing immediately to action. — Desires are emotions of the
mind not proceeding from a bodily cause, and leading to
action. — And lastly, whenever we use the two words,
desire and passion, for the same affection of mind, it is
because in the one, we consider what the mind endures

P

338 LECTURE XXIV,

from the emotion ; in the other, how it is impelled to act
by the emotion.

I am aware it would be very curious, as well as very
useful, here to consider how far the same divisions and
distinctions obtain in other languages, which are adopted
in our own : it would not be very difficult to do it, but
it would necessarily lead to long verbal discussions,
which might be very agreeable to two or three persons,
and very tiresome to every one beside.

I have already classed those emotions of the neutral
class, which are called either desires or passions, among
the latter ; because I found them so classed, and because
it did not then occur to me, what was the distinguishing
circumstance between the passions and desires. The
desires, of which I shall treat at present, are, the desire
of knowledge, the desire of esteem, the desire of power,
the desire of possession, and the desire of activity : not
that these are the only desires which possess the mind,
but that almost all the lesser motives are immediately
resolvable into them. Let every man consider the innu-
merable principles of action by which he is every day
impelled, and he will very soon discover that these de-
sires are the origin of them all. You take a walk ; that
is, you are under the influence of that principle of nature,
which makes continued rest painful to you ; or you go
to call upon some one, who will make you more rich, or
more powerful ; or you go to a tailor, who will make
you more respectable in your appearance. These great
operating principles are broken down into innumerable
divisions and subdivisions ; but there are very few of
our actions which can not be traced to their source.
The ten thousand minute things which we all perform
every day, all proceed, directly or indirectly, from the
great principles which I have enumerated. Look at
the bustle of Bond street; drive from thence to the
Royal Exchange ; observe the infinite variety of occu-
pations, movements, and agitations, as you go along :
nothing can appear more intricate, — more impossible to
be reduced to any thing like rule or system ; and yet a
very few elements put all this mass of human beings
into action. If a messenger from heaven were on a sud-

UN THE DESIRES. .339

den to annihilate the love of power, the love of wealth,
and the love of esteem, in the human heart ; in half an
hour's time the streets would be as empty, and as silent,
as they are in the middle of the night. I take it to be a
consequence of civilization, that all the feelings of mind
which proceed from the body excite little sympathy, in
comparison with those which have not a bodily origin.
The loss of a leg and an arm is a dreadful misfortune ;
but the slightest disgrace would be considered as a much
greater. To be laid up seven months in the gout every
year is a piteous state of existence ; to lose a brother or
a sister is a state of existence, in common estimation,
still more miserable. The slightest pang of jealousy, or
wounded pride, may be brought upon the stage ; but the
most intense pain of body, introduced into a play, would
excite laughter rather than compassion. Who would
endure a tragedy, where the whole distress turned upon
a fit of the palsy, or a smart rheumatic fever? Nothing
could be more exquisitely ridiculous ! The fact is, as a
nation advances in the useful arts, all bodily evils are so
much mitigated, and guarded against, that they cease to
excite that sympathy which they formerly did, because
they are less generally felt.

How ridiculous, as I before remarked, a play would be,
of which a hungry man were the hero ! Why ? — be-
cause we never suffer from extreme hunger, and have
very little sympathy for it ; there is hardly any such
thing known in civilized society : the author himself
would, probably, be the only man in the whole play-
house, who had ever seriously felt the want of a dinner.
But if a nation of savages were to see such a drama act-
ed, they would see no ridicule in it at all ; because starv-
ing to death is, among them, no uncommon thing : they
are advanced such a little way in civilization, that to fill
their stomachs, is the great and important object of life :
and I have no doubt, that to an Indian audience, the loss
of a piece of venison might be the basis of a tragedy
which would fill every eye with tears ; but, on the con-
trary, they might be very likely to laugh, to hear a man
complain of his wounded honor, if it turned out that he
had ten days' provision beforehand in his cabin. In the

340 LECTURE XXIV.

same manner, the loss of a leg is the consummation of
all evil, where there is nothing but body ; but it becomes
an evil of the lowest order, where there remain behind
the pleasures of imagination, of elegant learning, of the
fine arts, of all the luxuries and glories of civilization, —
the tendency of which is always to put down and vilify
every thing which belongs to the body, and to exalt all
the feelings in which the mind alone is concerned. In
some of the Greek tragedies, there is an attempt to
excite compassion by the representation of the agonies
of bodily pain. Philoctetes cries out and faints from
the extremity of his suffering, exclaiming upon the stage,
* Oh, Jupiter ! my leg, my leg!" Hyppolitus and Her-
cules are both introduced as expiring under the severest
torments. These attempts to excite compassion by the
representation of bodily pain, are certainly among the
greatest breaches of decorum, of which the Greek theater
has set the example ; and afford a strong suspicion that
their audience was less elegant and refined than that which
presides over our modern theaters. And the reason
why such sort of appeals to the passions would not now
be tolerated, is, not so much on account of the pain they
would excite (because, the sufferings of the mind excite
pain), but because bodily pain is a dull, stupid, unvary-
ing, uninteresting spectacle, in comparison with all those
critical and delicate emotions of mind, which are univer-
sally felt in a state of civilization, — and in that state
alone. Dr. Adam Smith seems to imagine that our dis-
regard of the bodily appetites and passions, can be ac-
counted for on general principles. " Such is our aver-
sion," he says, " for all the appetites which take their
origin from the body : all strong expressions of them are
lothsome and disagreeable. According to some ancient
philosophers, these are the passions which we share in
common with the brutes, and which, having no connec-
tion with the characteristical qualities of human nature,
are upon that account beneath its dignity. But there
are many other passions which we share in common
with the brutes, such as resentment, natural affection,
even gratitude, which do not, upon that account, appear
to be so brutal. The true cause of the peculiar disgust

ON THE DESIRES 841

which we conceive for the appetites of the body, when
we see them in other men, is, that we can not enter into
them. To the person himself who feels them, as soon as
they are gratified, the object that excited them ceases to
be agreeable : even its presence often becomes offensive
to him ; he looks round to no purpose for the charm
which transported him the moment before ; and he can
now as little enter into his own passion as another
person."*

I can not think this explanation to be just ; but it seems
to me, that all the pains and pleasures of the body are
degraded, and put down, by the greater pains and pleas-
ures of the mind introduced by civilization.

Having premised these observations, I proceed to con-
sider the desire of knowledge itself.

A child loves novelty, because the excitement which
it occasions is agreeable : he does not consider whether
the novelties which attract his attention are useful or
not ; but he merely loves them because they are new.
It is from this passion that he becomes so rapidly ac-
quainted with the properties of matter. In what we
call his idlest moments, he is making himself acquainted
with the qualities of objects, and the powers of his own
body ; — is wax soft ? is iron hard ? is wood fit to eat ?
how high can I jump ? what can I carry ? and such like
questions, which may be called the grammar of exist-
ence, a child is perpetually resolving, under the influ-
ence of novelty. The desire of knowledge is this same
principle, guided by utility ; for no person, I believe, is
said to acquire knowledge, who merely acquires new
truths, but only he who acquires new useful truths. It
would not be impossible to ascertain how many persons
there are in Great Britain whose names begin with an
S. A person who ascertained this, would acquire new
truths ; but we should hardly say he was influenced by
a desire of knowledge.

The love of knowledge is, perhaps, very seldom gen-
uine : it is not loved for the direct pleasure it affords,
but to avoid disgrace ; or to obtain money, or fame, or

* Dr. Adam Smith's " Moral Sentiments," part i. p. 46.

342 LECTURE XXIV.

power ; or for the pleasure of communicating it. There
are, I fancy, very few of those who love knowledge the
best, that would pursue it with any great degree of
ardor, if they were so completely excluded from society,
as to render it impossible that they should communicate
with mankind, either in person, or by their works. The
fact is, that to seek for those novelties which are hidden
in history, or in science, — to wait for our gratifications
so long, and to withstand so many present impulses of
sense, as every lover of knowledge must do, — is no very
easy thing. It requires all these auxiliary passions to
help it out. It rewards so much, that it ought to be
rewarded; it confers so much honor, that it ought to
be honored ; it communicates so much pleasure, that
it ought to be pleased ; it is so immensely valuable to
mankind, that no motive which gives it birth can be a
bad one. The best, however, of all motives is (as Lord
Bacon has told us), that we may employ the gift of
reason, given us by God, to the use and advantage of
man. The love of knowledge, merely for its own sake,
and without any reference to its utility, is a passion
quite similar to that which is felt by a child ; — a desire
to procure excitement from novelty and surprise. The
immediate and instant pleasure derived from reading an
ingenious problem in Euclid, is not different from that
which a child would feel at the sight of a new toy ; but
a man before he sets about gratifying this passion for
novelty, satisfies himself that the novelties which he is
seeking, are useful. So that the love of knowledge is
very often a mere secondary passion ; and it proceeds
from the love of that fortune and fame, which is the
consequence of knowledge ; or, when it seems more
original, it may be resolved into the love of emotion or
novelty.

But though, in common, the love of knowledge is
solvable into some other passion at its origin, and before
it is formed by association, yet there are some very
remarkable instances of the pure love of knowledge,
where it is not easy to ascribe its existence to any other
cause. Such appears to have been the case with James
Ferguson, the philosopher and the mechanic. He was

ON THE DESIRES. 343

born in Scotland, of the poorest parents ; and his love
of knowledge began to exert itself at the earliest age.
He learned to read from hearing his father teach his
brother : and had made that acquisition before any one
suspected it in the slightest degree. He made a pro-
digious advance in mechanics while he was a farmer's
boy, without any instructor, or the help of any one
book. Of an evening after he had brought home the
sheep, he employed himself in contemplating the stars ;
and began the study of astronomy, by laying down, from
his own observation only, a celestial globe : in these ob-
servations and occupations he was discovered, and in-
troduced to public notice.

The famous Buxton had not the slightest recollection
when his passion for numbers began. His attention
was, from the earliest times of his life, so constantly
fixed upon arithmetic, that he frequently, when a child,
took no cognizance of external objects ; and when he
did, it. was only of their numbers. If any space of time
was mentioned, he immediately reduced it to seconds ;
if any person mentioned that he had been traveling so
many miles, Buxton told him the number of hair's-
breadths he had been over. At church, he found it
quite impossible to attend to the meaning of what the
clergyman said, but he knew exactly of how many words,
syllables, and letters, the sermon consisted. It is very
difficult to ascribe such instances as these to any other
cause than the mere love of knowledge itself; but in
general, it is the instrument of some other desire at first,
— till at last, by the customary process of association, it
becomes to be loved on its own account. The desire
of knowledge in any people begins from the love of nov-
elty, is cherished by the love of utility, and then princi-
pally encouraged by the fame and distinction to which it
leads. Curiosity would be the first motive in a savage,
to examine the arms and instruments of Europeans ; a
consciousness of their utility would increase this desire ;
and, in process of time, the distinctions obtained by in-
ventors and improvers of these things, would be the
most customary incitement to the cultivation of knowl-
edge. Nothing can be more important to the welfare

344 LECTURE XXIV.

of a community, than the wide extension of rational
curiosity in the desire of knowledge ; it not only in-
creases the comforts, enlivens the feelings, and improves
the faculties of man, but it forms the firmest barrier
against the love of pleasure, and stops the progress of
corruption. Every nation has its chances for happiness
increased, in proportion as it honors and rewards a spirit
which, above all things, honors and rewards it.

The strongest of all our desires, seems to be the desire
of esteem. It is the cause of innumerable other desires :
it is the frequent cause (as I have before said) of the
love of knowledge : it is the cause, very often, of the
love of wealth; for no man, I presume, who lived in a
desert, and moved about without a single soul to look
at him, would care what sort of a coat he wore, provided
he was kept from the cold ; or whether he eat out of
earthenware, or silver, provided his meat was kept out
of the dirt. In the same way, the love of power may be
traced to it ; not but that there exists a love of power,
quite independent of it, — but that men very often love
power, only for the additional esteem they gain from it
among their fellow-creatures. The love of life perpetu-
ally gives way to the love of esteem ; men are shot, and
hacked to pieces, from the hope of gaining esteem, or
the fear of losing it. Upon this subject of the desire of
esteem, there are two opinions which require considera-
tion ; the one of Dr. Adam Smith, the other of Mr.
Hume. " We are not content," says the former of
these writers, " with praise, unless we deserve it ; nor
are we content with deserving it, unless we obtain it."
It is probable, therefore, that there are two original prin-
ciples in the human mind;* the one, the love of praise;
the other, the love of praiseworthiness. In the same
manner, we are not easy when we are blamed, even
though we deserve it ; nor are we easy to deserve it,
even though we are not blamed : therefore, here the
double principle is observable, — first, the dread of blame ;
next, the dread of blameworthiness. The opinion of
Mr. Hume is, that there is no love of the esteem oi
others, except as that esteem enables us to esteem our-
selves ; that the thing wanted is self-approbation ; and

ON THE DESIRES. 345

the praise of others is only important as it is a means of
gratifying this feeling. .

In the first place, what, in a mere moral point of view,
is meant by self- approbation ? (Put religion out of the
question for a moment.) Examine, in a mere human
point of view, what passes in your own mind when you
approve yourself. It is really nothing more than that
pleasure which results from the esteem of all honest and
reflecting men. When you are universally blamed,
though you know you have done right, you always com-
fort yourself that the world would have determined
otherwise, had they been acquainted with all the circum-
stances, and informed of the real motives. You refer
the matter to a more enlightened tribunal, or to posterity:
you do not pretend to set up your own self- approbation,
against the judgment of others ; but you approve your-
self, merely because you say, better men, more enlight-
ened men, and more impartial men, would have decided
in a very different manner. Therefore, I can not see
how self-esteem, and the desire of the esteem of others,
can be compared together : for, called upon to define
self-esteem, I could say nothing else of it than that it
was that agreeable feeling which proceeds from the be-
lief that we possess, or that we ought to possess, the
esteem of others. Then again, it is very true, that we
love praise, and we love to deserve praise ; but the love
of praiseworthiness is merely a consequence of the love
of praise, — not an original principle. To make my
meaning the more clear, I will put this case : — A great
battle is gained, the plan and dispositions of which are
admirable ; the general who conducted the army is con-
sidered as a consummate master of the military art, and
arrives at the very summit of reputation as an accom-
plished officer ; but this plan of the battle was drawn out
for him the evening before, by one of his aides-de-camp,
whose original conception it was, and to whom all the
merit is really due. Which is the most enviable situa-
tion ? His, who is praised without being praiseworthy ;
or his, who is praiseworthy without being praised ? No-
body here could entertain a moment's doubt about the
matter, that the praiseworthiness is preferable to the

346 LECTURE XXIV.

praise. But why ? Merely from the love of praise ;
merely because it, in the end, procures more praise. A
miser may refuse a sum of money, because, by so doing,
in the end he may gain a greater : his reputation is
worth more to him than the sum which he is offered for
it ; he does not love reputation better than money, but
lie loves reputation merely because he loves money.
Just so with praiseworthiness : it grows out of the love
of praise, and is only preferred to it at any particular
time, because, by that temporary preference, it is prob-
able more praise, in the end, will be obtained ; at last,
like every other preference, it grows into a habit.

The desire of power, I can not better describe than in
the words of Mr. Dugald Stewart. I quote from his
" Outlines of Moral Philosophy ;" and his views upon
this subject appear to be so truly excellent, that I shall
quote them at some length : —

" Whenever we are led to consider ourselves as the
authors of any effect, we feel a sensible pride or exulta-
tion in the consciousness of power ; and the pleasure is,
in general, proportioned to the greatness of the effect,
compared to the smallness of the exertion.

" The infant, while still on the breast, delights in ex-
erting its little strength upon every object it meets with ;
and is mortified, when any accident convinces it of its
imbecility. The pastimes of the boy are, almost without
exception, such as suggest to him the idea of his power :
— and the same remark may be extended to the active
sports, and the athletic exercises, of youth and of man-
hood.

" As we advance in years, and as our animal powers
lose their activity and vigor, we gradually aim at ex-
tending our influence over others, by the superiority of
fortune and of situation, or by the still more flattering
superiority of intellectual endowment : by the force of
our understanding, by the extent of our information, by
the arts of persuasion, or the accomplishments of address.
What but the idea of power, pleases the orator, in the
consciousness of his eloquence ; when he silences the
reasons of others by superior ingenuity; bends to his
purposes their desires and passions ; and. without the

ON THE DESIRES. 347

aid of force or the splendor of rank, becomes the arbiter
of the fate of nations ?

" To the same principle we may trace, in part, the
pleasure arising from the discovery of general theorems.
Every such discovery puts us in possession of innumer-
able particular truths, or particular facts ; and gives us
a ready command of a great stock of knowledge, to
which we had not access before. The desire of power,
therefore, comes, in the progress of reason and experi-
ence, to act as an auxiliary to our instinctive desire of
knowledge.

" The idea of power is, partly at least, the foundation
of our attachment to property. It is not enough for us
to have the use of an object. We desire to have it
completely at our own disposal ; without being respon-
sible to any person whatever.

" Avarice is a particular modification of the desire of
power ; arising from the various functions of money in
a commercial country. Its influence as an active prin-
ciple is much strengthened by habit and association.

" The love of liberty proceeds, in part, from the same
source ; from a desire of being able to do whatever is
agreeable to our own inclination. Slavery mortifies us,
because it limits our power.

" Even the love of tranquillity and retirement has
been resolved by Cicero, into the same principle.

" The desire of power is also, in some degree, the
foundation of the pleasure of virtue. We love to be at
liberty to follow our own inclinations, without being
subject to the control of a superior ; but this alone is
not sufficient to our happiness. When we are led, by
vicious habits, or by the force of passion, to do what
reason disapproves, we are sensible of a mortifying sub-
jection to the inferior principles of our nature, and feel
our own littleness and weakness. A sense of freedom
and independence, elevation of mind, and the pride of
virtue, are the natural sentiments of the man, who is
conscious of being able, at all times, to calm the tumults
of passion, and to obey the cool suggestions of duty and
honor."

LECTURE XXV.

ON SURPRISE, NOVELTY, AND VARIETY.

STATEMENT OF DIFFERENCE BETWEEN SURPRISE, NOVELTY, AND VARIETY.

EFFECTS OF SURPRISE. OF CONTRAST. OF THE TWO KINDS OF NOVELTY.

OF VARIETY. EFFECTS OF CHANGE. AND THE EXPLANATION OF THOSE

EFFECTS. HOW FAR NOVELTY IS AGREEABLE. EXPLANATION OF THE

PLEASURE OF NOVELTY.

Wonder, surprise, and admiration, — words often con-
founded, — denote, in our languaore, sentiments, which
though allied, are also in some respects distinct from
one another. What is new and singular, excites the
sentiment which, in strict propriety, is called wonder ;
what is unexpected, surprise ; and what is great or
beautiful, admiration.

We wonder at all the rare phenomena of nature ; — at
meteors, comets, and eclipses ; at singular plants and
animals ; and at every thing, in short, with w T hich we
have before been, either little, or not at all acquainted ;
and we still wonder, though forewarned of what we shall
see.

We are surprised with those things which we have
seen very often, but which we little expected to meet
with in the place where w T e find them. We are sur-
prised at the sudden appearance of a friend, whom we
have seen a thousand times, but whom we did not
imagine we were to see then. We admire the beauty
of a plain, or the vastness of a mountain, though we have
seen both often before ; and though nothing appears to
us in either, but what we had expected with certainty to
see. Or, to take it by illustration, and to exemplify the
usages of the three words in one object : — The first time
I see St. Paul's, I wonder at it; the hundredth time, I
only admire it. If I wake in a coach, and find myself in

ON SURPRISE, NOVELTY, AND VARIETY. 349

St. Paul's Churchyard, when 1 thought I was in Pall
Mall, I am surprised by the appearance of the building.
For the first time of seeing such a building, surprise,
admiration, and wonder might all be excited at the same
moment ; afterward, surprise and admiration, or admira-
tion alone.

When an object of any kind, which has been for some
time expected and foreseen, presents itself, whatever be
the emotion which it is by nature fitted to excite, the
mind must have been prepared for it, and must even in
some measure have conceived it before, because the idea
of the object having been so long present to it, must
have excited some degree of the same emotion which
the object itself would excite. The change, therefore,
is less considerable, and the passion which it excites
glides gradually, and easily, into the heart without
violence, pain, or difficulty. But the contrary of all this
happens when the passion is unexpected. If it be a
strong passion, the heart is thrown by it into a violent
and convulsive emotion, such as sometimes occasions
immediate death : sometimes the suddenness of the
ecstasy so entirely disjoints the frame of the imagination,
that it never after returns to its former tone and compo-
sure, but falls either into a frenzy, or habitual lunacy ;
or such as almost always occasions a momentary loss of
reason, or of that attention to other things which our
situation or our duty requires. From the apprehension
of these consequences, we are very cautious of com-
municating bad news on a sudden. The panic terrors
which sometimes seize upon whole armies in the field, or
great cities, when an enemy is in the neighborhood, and
which deprive, for a time, the most determined of all
deliberate judgment, are never excited but by the sudden
apprehension of danger.

Fear, though naturally a very strong passion, never
rises to such excesses, unless exasperated by wonder,
from the uncertain nature of the danger, and by surprise,
from the suddenness of the apprehension. There are
some very interesting observations on this subject in the
tracts of Dr. Adam Smith ; one passage from which I
shall take this opportunity of quoting. " Surprise, is not

350 . LECTURE XXV.

to be regarded as an original emotion, of a species
distinct from all others. Violent and sudden change
produced upon the mind, when an emotion of any kind
is brought suddenly upon it, constitutes the whole nature
of surprise. But when not only a passion, and a great
passion, comes all at once upon the mind, but when it
comes upon it while the mind is in the mood most unfit
for conceiving it, the surprise is then the greatest.
Surprises of joy when the mind is sunk into grief, or of
grief when it is elated with joy, are therefore the most
insupportable. The change is, in this case, the greatest
possible. Not only a strong passion is conceived all at
once ; but a strong passion, the direct opposite of that
which was before in possession of the soul. When a
load of sorrow comes down upon the heart that is
expanded and elated with gayety and joy, it seems not
only to damp and oppress it, but almost to crush and
bruise it, as a real weight would crush and bruise the
body. On the contrary, when, from an unexpected
change of fortune, a tide of gladness seems, if I may say
so, to spring all at once within it, when depressed and
contracted with grief and sorrow, it feels as if it suddenly
extended and heaved up with violent, irresistible force,
and is torn with pangs, of all others the most exquisite,
and which almost always occasion faintings, deliriums,
and sometimes instant death. For it may be worth
while to observe, that though grief be a more violent
passion than joy, — as, indeed, all uneasy sensations
seem naturally more pungent than the opposite agreeable
ones, — yet, of the two, surprises of joy are still more
insupportable than surprises of grief."*

These observations are very true, and very interesting ;
but they would have been introduced, perhaps, with
greater accuracy, if the phenomena to which they refer,
had been classed under the head of contrast rather than
surprise ; for contrast and surprise, though feelings
which very much resemble each other, are unquestion-
ably very separable and distinct. This is a case which
will set the distinction between contrast and surprise in

* Dr. Adam Smith's " History of Astronomy." p. 8.

ON SURPRISE, NOVELTY, AND VARIETY. 351

a strong light : — If I have long been suffering from abject
poverty, and suddenly receive the intelligence of coming
into possession of a large fortune, the unexpectedness of
the news excites in me the feeling of surprise ; but
another distinct feeling is excited in me, by the contrast
which I draw between my present fortune, and my past :
which last feeling, I should have had even though I had
expected my riches every day for a twelvemonth past.

Not only grief and joy, but all the passions, are more
violent when opposite extremes succeed each other.
No resentment is so keen as that which follows the
quarrels of lovers ; — no love so passionate, as that which
attends their reconciliation : when near relations quarrel,
they are generally ten times more vindictive than
ordinary disputants. Contrast, produces just the same
effects in the body. Moderate warmth, appears to be
intolerable heat, if felt after extreme cold. What is
bitter of itself, will seem more bitter, when tasted after
what is very sweet. A dirty white, looks bright and
pure, when placed by a jet black. In short, the vivacity
of every sentiment, and of every sensation, seems to be
greater or less, in proportion to the change made by
either, upon the situation of the mind or organ ; which
change must, of course, be the greatest when opposite
sensations or sentiments are contrasted, and succeed
immediately to each other. Contrast is extremely
favorable to ugliness, or any natural disadvantages,
where there are other recommendations to overcome
them. The first impression, from appearance, is so
disagreeable, that it animates all the pleasing impressions
from merit, by the mere effect of contrast ; and therefore,
it matters not what it is, — whether it be the loss of an
eye, or an ill-contrived set of features, or a rustic gait, —
it is merely an obstacle in the beginning. If you have
merit of any kind to get over it, you will afterward
derive good from it, rather than harm ; and be extolled
as much above your true standard, as you were first of
all depreciated below it. A great deal of the propriety
of common behavior is regulated by contrast. No one
could endure to see a judge dance, or a bishop vault into
his saddle. A very regulated and subdued pleasantry

352 LECTURE XXV.

and relaxation, is all that can be allowed to men
habitually and officially dignified. Contrast in trifling
objects, which can excite no high emotion, is the source
of humor.

There are two kinds of novelty ; — novelty in detached
objects, and novelty in their succession. It was a novel-
ty to the Romans to behold the elephants of King Pyrrhus :
and it is a novelty to us to see men made drunk and
mad by breathing a certain air ; it is an order of events,
to which we have never been accustomed. We have
not connected together the phenomena of drunkenness,
and the reception of an aerial fluid into the lungs. There
are also different degrees of novelty. An extensive
building, or a complicated machine, may be new, after I
have seen them three or four times ; because, it is im-
possible to remember all the parts and relations, where
they are so extensive and intricate.

Another degree of novelty exists in objects, of which
we have some information at second-hand ; for descrip-
tion, though it contribute to familiarity, can not do away
entirely with the effect of novelty, when the object is
presented. The first sight of a lion occasions wonder,
after a thorough acquaintance with the best pictures and
statues of that animal ; and no man could see the great
wall of Tartary without shuddering, even if he had read
a whole circulating library full of embassies to, and trav-
els in China.

We have the greatest disposition to find resemblances,
and to class objects together which affect the mind in a
similar manner ; and so strong is this propensity in our
nature, that it is hardly possible we can see any thing,
without likening it to something we have seen or con-
ceived before. The inhabitants of Owhyhee had no
animals larger than hogs, and when they saw a goat on
board Captain Cook's ship they called it a bird. Some
white travelers, seized by the natives in the interior of
Africa, were immediately pronounced to be a species of
the monkey ; and as the Indian corn had been lately
very much plundered by that animal, they well nigh
escaped being stoned to death. It is, in fact, hardly pos-
sible that we should see any thing without finding a re-

ON SURPRISE, NOVELTY, AND VARIETY. 353

semblance for it ; and therefore, strictly speaking, nothing
is absolutely new : but things differ in the degree in
which they resemble our previous ideas. The love of
variety seems to be a low degree of the love of novelty ;
for in running from the town to the country, and the
country to the town, I seek for a succession of objects,
some of the properties and qualities of which I have for-
gotten, and the revival of which produces in my mind a
low degree of the same sort of excitement which is al-
ways consequent upon novelty. A person has been
absent a whole winter, in London : the parlor, the
drawing-room, and the lawn, in the country, can not be
said to be absolutely new, but still, in a certain degree,
they are faded away from the memory ; the little traces
are gone, the great work of oblivion is clearly begun, and
the pleasure we experience at revisiting the haunts of
our childhood, is derived from the treachery and infir-
mity of our faculties. In the same manner, we are apt
to tire of our companions. When we have seen them
some time, we fly to others for relief, whose style and
conversation has become slightly obliterated in our minds,
and by the comparative freshness of which, we are more
excited.

All these phenomena of which I have been speaking,
the effects of contrast, variety, and novelty, are all refer-
able to one fact, — the effects of change upon the mind ;
for the mind is in a state of rest, when the ideas which
pass through it are not very different from each other,
nor very sudden in their approach, nor very new : but
these three sorts of change, — novelty, suddenness, and
contrast, — rouse it in a moment from its slumbers, and
let loose all the storms of passion.

" I was sitting," says the author of some Letters upon
the Earthquake at Lisbon, " I was sitting playing with
my kitten, and just going to breakfast. I had one slipper
on, and the other was in pussy's mouth ; when my at-
tention was roused by the sudden sound of thunder ; the
floor heaved under me, and I saw the spire of the church
of the Holy Virgin come tumbling to the ground, like
a plaything overturned by a child. I rushed into the
street, unknowing what I did, and where I went ; and

354 LECTURE XXV.

beheld such a scene, as made it come into my mind, that
the end of all things was at hand, and that this was the
judgment-day appointed by God ! By this time the air
was filled with the screams of the mangled and the dy-
ing. The dwellings of men, the trophies of conquest,
the temples of God, were falling all around me, and my
escape appeared quite impossible. I made up my mind
for death."

There is in this picture, I think, suddenness, contrast,
and novelty, in abundance ! Nor is it inappositely con-
trasted with the calm and familiar state of his ideas, pre-
vious to the commencement of the earthquake.

It is commonly said and thought that no account can
be given of these effects of change upon our minds, —
that we are pleased with novelty, and affected by sur-
prise and contrast, because such is the law of nature ;
and that no other reason can be given. But surely the
explanation of it is, that all the changes of matter are so
apt to affect us with pleasure and pain, that, on this ac-
count, we watch its changes. If no object that you
could present to a child, could give that child either
pleasure or pain, 1 submit to every body here present,
whether it seems very probable that the child would care
one farthing about the changes of objects : but some ob-
jects are sweet, and some are disgusting, — like physic ;
and some smooth, and some prick him ; and therefore, as
every object presented to him affects his interests, he gains
rapidly those habits of attending to the changes of objects,
which, because the origin of it lies hidden in the remot-
est infancy, we indolently pronounce to be an ultimate
fact, and incapable of explanation. A child is originally
excited by new objects, and by objects suddenly present-
ed to his notice, from the hope of the pleasures, or fear
of the pains, it may produce. For the very same reason,
he is struck by contrast. He has an interest in study-
ing the qualities of every thing with the greatest quick-
ness. The mind travels with more difficulty from a
sheep to an elephant, than from a sheep to a lamb. The
difficulty of mastering and arranging the new ideas, from
their great dissimilarity with those which preceded them,
is that excitement of mind which contrast produces ; and

ON SURPRISE, NOVELTY, AND VARIETY. 355

variety is the same thing, in a less degree. If matter
could do us neither good nor harm, we should see Gor-
gons, Chimaeras, and Minotaurs, starting up under our
feet, with as much indifference as we think about them;
and the only reason why surprise, novelty, and contrast,
in our conceptions, are not as strong as in our percep-
tions, is, that they have little to do with pleasure or pain.
No man had more new, surprising, and contrasted ideas,
than Ariosto ; but nobody ever heard of his surprising
himself into swoons by his own conceptions : a mouse
running across the room has probably startled him much
more than all his own beautiful extravagances have ever
been able to do.

We have, in the same manner, a pleasure in contem-
plating the resemblances of objects, and their differ-
ences : hence, method and classification in science ; the
mode of arguing by analogy ; and the rules laid down
for the regulation of common life. It seems to be most
probable that all this comes from the strong motive
which pain and pleasure communicate to us, for ob-
serving the resemblances of matter; for a child that
loves sugar, observes the appearances of sugar, and
every thing white is a resemblance, which is apt to ex-
cite his appetite : perhaps he takes up a piece of salt, and
the pain which this mistake inflicts, excites him to fresh
observation, and makes him more attentive in his classi-
fications. If he got nothing by observing whether objects
were alike or unlike, he would never observe or classify
at all. I beg leave to observe, that I am only speaking
of the origin of contrast, novelty, discernment, and
variety ; for after the mind has once got the notion, that
new things are to be watched, on account of their
consequences, the middle term, according to the usual
process of association, is soon omitted, and novelty is
remarked on account of itself; just as, at last, money is
loved for itself. And this is another reason why the
cause of the feeling is forgotten, and it is supposed to be
original.

If this be the history of our attention to change, the
next question is, how far is change agreeable ? In the
first -place, we must remember that novelty excites the

356 LECTURE XXV.

mind, and that when the mind is in a state of excite-
ment, any passion which falls upon it becomes stronger
than it otherwise would be. Whoever was frightened
by a storm at sea, would be more frightened if he were
at sea for the first time, because the novelty exciting his
mind, would come to the aid of the passion of fear.
Whoever saw a beautiful spectacle on the stage, would
feel the pleasure rendered much greater by the excite-
ment of novelty. There is also a pleasure in the excite-
ment of mere novelty, though perhaps not a very great
one. No one would go out of his way to see a rat, but
we should have some pleasure in seeing a white rat: the
novelty of the color would in some measure overcome
the disgust which that animal occasions. A Spaniard
dressed as an Englishman would excite no curiosity ; —
if he passed the streets in the dress of his native country,
we should turn aside to look upon him. It is not easy
to find instances, where we receive much pleasure from
mere novelty. What we call the pleasures of novelty,
are generally the pleasures of something else. A new
cap, or a new gown, is the pleasure of figure, and the
pleasure of color, or the pleasure of fashion, the associa-
tion with elegance and gayety : the pleasure of novelty
forms but a very small part of it.

In contemplating the falls of Niagara, it would be the
sublimity and the terror of the scene that we should
call by the general name of novelty : innumerable ob-
jects, quite as new, would be infinitely less striking, from
their inferior sublimity. In the rage for traveling, the
object is not so much to gratify the love of novelty as
the love of excellence ; not merely to see new things,
but new grand things, new beautiful things, new excel-
lence, in which the grand and beautiful will, I should
think, upon reflection, be found to have a much greater
effect, than the new.

This appears very much against the power of novelty ;
that whenever its effects seem to be very great, it is
always found in conjunction with other principles ;
whenever it is found alone, its influence is very incon-
siderable.

Nearly the same observations may be made of sur-

ON SURPRISE, NOVELTY, AND VARIETY. 357

prise. Surprise increases pleasure and pain ; and in
itself is slightly agreeable. If any one were to tell me
that in taking a walk in the country, I should find a little
seal, or a silver thimble, lying in a pathway where it had
been left, nothing could be more indifferent to me than
to look upon it ; but if I were to light upon such objects
all of a sudden, I might derive a faint gleam of satisfac-
tion from the mere surprise. It is only in such little
objects that the question can be tried ; for when surprise
comes to be mingled with great passions, it is very diffi-
cult to know what to give to surprise, what to the feel-
ings with which it is conjoined. A man thinks, and
hears, that his son is killed in battle, and all of a sudden
his son enters into the room where he is sitting, and the
father drops down in a swoon ; but if a maid-servant,
whom he believed to have been dead three years before,
had entered his room, no such violent symptoms would
have taken place, though the mere surprise, the unex-
pectedness of the vision, would have been quite as great :
therefore, it seems fair to say, that the effect is to be
attributed in a greater measure to the conflicting pas-
sions within, than to the mere surprise ; for, all surprise
out of the question, and the father prepared, months
before, to meet the son whom he had supposed to be
dead, and aware of the very hour and moment of the
meeting, yet still the trial would be very dreadful and
severe. But, all-important affection out of the question,
the mere surprise would not be of much consequence ;
for if a pointer-dog were to enter the room, whose death
had been considered as certain, the effect produced
would be quite inconsiderable ; and yet in this case the
mere unexpectedness is quite as great as in any of the
others. But this is curious, that suddenness and admira-
tion, or novelty and admiration in their combined state,
produce effects infinitely more powerful than their sep-
arate effects, added together, could ever be supposed to
produce. It is impossible to look upon York Minster
for the first time, without feeling a degree of transport ;
but these transports are certainly not felt by the mayor
or aldermen of York, who see it every week, — though
even their callousness must be sometimes excited bv it.

358 LECTURE XXV.

The only circumstance in which they differ from a
stranger is, in wanting the feeling of novelty; which
feeling by itself I have before shown to be very insig-
nificant ; but, add it to admiration, and the whole effect
is very striking. Mere surprise, by itself, produces no
very stupendous consequences ; the separate power of
novelty is not very strong ; mere contrast can very well
be endured. Admiration, devoid of all these, is com-
paratively weak ; but when a new object is suddenly
presented to our view, contrasted with all other objects,
and in itself a subject of admiration, it is then that the
strongest sensations which the mind is capable of feeling
are always produced.

The same, or nearly the same, observations might be
gone over respecting contrast and variety : and the
result of the inquiry is, that, in all these considerable
changes of our ideas, there is a pleasure, arising from
the excitement which they produce ; and that the desire
of occasioning that excitement, is very often a stimulus
to action. It is notorious, however, in the instance of
novelty, that it is more a stimulus with the young, than
with the old. It will be curious to ascertain what are
the causes of this remarkable difference between the
different periods of life. Experience has taught to old
men the danger of change, and the difficulty of fore-
seeing its effects. They become lazy in the exertion of
their faculties, and dislike that strain and excitement
of mind, which new things occasion : whereas, excite-
ment is agreeable to the young ; they have quite a pas-
sion for it. Whatever men have done long, it is painful
for them not to do ; to whatever they have done long, or
seen long, they attach the very agreeable notion of self:
" I have been accustomed to do so ;" — " this was the case
in my time ;" — " I have always seen this, or that," — and
such-like references to self; which always establish a
pleasing connection of ideas. So that fear, indolence,
reason, and habit, are constantly at work to destroy the
power of novelty ; and the love of what is customary,
becomes as much the characteristic of one age, as the
love of what is new is that of another : and the reason
why the balance is commonly against novelty, is, that so

ON SURPRISE;, NOVELTY, AND VARIETY. 359

much more power is lodged in the hands of the old, than
of the young. Let thirty-five be a middle period, divid-
ing mankind into two classes. The elder of these two
classes has infinitely a greater share of power and author-
ity than the other : in the youngest even of this upper
class, novelty has lost a great deal of its power, and habit
has begun to fix its empire. The young object and com-
plain, and think they can improve ; but they are com-
pelled to wait so long before the power comes to them,
that they are familiarized by habit, though not, perhaps,
convinced by reason. So it happens, and happens, per-
haps, very fortunately upon the whole, that the power is
lodged in the hands of those who have constitutionally
an aversion to innovation ; — more fortunately, certainly,
than if it were lodged in the hands of those who had a
love of it : but the best of all would be, that we should
know the bias of every period of life, guard against it,
and decide upon questions, not as they are new or old,
but as they are good or bad. The pleasure occasioned
by the excitement of these emotions, produces, as may
be easily seen, the most important effects upon human
happiness. Novelty is the foundation of the love of
knowledge ; which is nothing but the desire of useful
novelty. The love of surprise and wonder, have been
the parents of poetical fiction, and of all those errors
which held such deep hold upon the mind of man ; —
witchcraft, demonology, astrology, and the manifold in-
stances of superstition, which depended upon the sup-
posed agency of invisible spirit. Whoever tells any
thing wonderful, contributes to the pleasure of those who
hear him, and therefore enjoys a temporary pre-emi-
nence ; but, as the imagination is soon warmed up to
this pitch, the next stage of narration must bring with it
a new stage of astonishment : and in this way evidence
is handed down to succeeding ages, till it requires the
greatest efforts of labor, and force of acuteness, to gain
a glimpse at the real truth. Mr. Knight has some very
sensible remarks on the bad effects which the love of
novelty produces upon taste, which to me are new,
though very probably they may not be so to my hear-
ers : — " The style of Virgil and Horace in poetry, and

360 LECTURE XXV.

that of Caesar and Cicero in prose, continued to be ad-
mired and applauded through all the succeeding ages of
Roman eloquence, as the true standards of taste and
eloquence in writing ; yet no one ever attempted to imi-
tate them, though there is no reason to believe but that
the praises bestowed upon them were perfectly sincere ;
but all writers seek for applause, — and applause is only
to be gained by novelty. The style of Cicero and Vir-
gil was new in the Latin language when they wrote ;
but in the age of Seneca and Lucan it was no longer so ;
and though it still imposed by the stamp of authority, it
could not even please without it ; so that living writers
whose names depended upon their works, and not their
works upon their names, were obliged to seek for other
means of exciting public attention, and acquiring public
approbation. In the succeeding age, these writers be-
came cold and insipid ; and the refinements of Statius
and Tacitus were successfully employed to gratify the
restless pruriency of innovation. In all other ages and
countries, where letters have been successfully culti-
vated, the progress has been nearly the same ; and in
none more distinctly than in our own : from Swift and
Addison, to Johnson, Burke, and Gibbon, is a transition
precisely similar to that from Caesar and Cicero, to Sen-
eca and Tacitus. In the imitative arts, from the effects
of novelty, the progress of corruption has been nearly
the same."* Mr. Knight adds afterward, — and with
perfect justice, — that though the passion for novelty has
been the principal means of corrupting taste, it has also
been a principal means of polishing and perfecting it.

I have said a great deal upon the subject of novelty,
and I do not know how I can better conclude than with
the termination of an Essay on the same subject, which
Dr. Johnson has pronounced to be one of the best- writ-
ten pieces in the English language. " To add no more/'
says the writer, " is not this fondness for novelty, which
makes us out of conceit with all we already have, a con-
vincing proof of a future state ? Either man was made
in vain, or this is not the only world he was made for :

* Knight, on Taste,

ON SURPRISE, NOVELTY, AND VARIETY. 361

for there can not be a greater instance of vanity than that,
to which a man is liable to be deluded, from the cradle
to the grave, with fleeting shadows of happiness ; his
pleasures die in the possession, and fresh enjoyments do
not rise fast enough to fill his mind with satisfaction.
When I see persons sick of themselves any longer than
they are called away by something that is of force
enough to chain down the present thought ; when I see
them hurry from one place to another, and then back
again ; continually shifting postures, and placing life in
all the different lights they can think of, — surely, say I
to myself, life is vain, and the man beyond expression
stupid or prejudiced, who, from the vanity of life can not
gather, that he is designed for immortality."

Q

LECTURE XXVI

ON HABIT.

It appears to be the law of our nature, that our past
thoughts and actions should exercise a very material
influence upon those which are to come. Whatever
ideas and whatever actions have been joined together,
have, ever after, a disposition to unite, exactly in pro-
portion to the frequency of their previous union ; till at
last, the adhesion becomes so strong, that it frequently
overcomes the earliest and the most powerful passions of
our nature. This power of habit extends to the brute
creation ; and appears to have some effect upon or-
ganized matter, as I shall hereafter endeavor to show.
Why we should be thus affected by habit, I presume
can not be explained. We might have been so con-
stituted as not to have had the smallest disposition to
do again, what we had been constantly doing for ten
years before ; we might have found it as difficult to pur-
sue a track of thought to which we had been accustomed,
as it is to strike into one entirely new : the fact is the
reverse, — and that is all we can say ; when we get there,
we arrive at the end of all human reasoning. Every
one must be familiar with the effects of habit. A walk
upon the quarter-deck, though intolerably confined, be-
comes so agreeable by custom, that a sailor, in his walk
on shore, very often confines himself within the same
bounds. " I knew a man," says Lord Karnes, " who
had relinquished the sea, for a country life : in the cor-
ner of his garden he reared an artificial mount, with a
level summit, resembling most accurately a quarter-deck,
not only in shape, but in size ; and here he generally
walked. In Minorca, Governor Kane made an excel-

ON HABIT. 363

lent road, the whole length of the island, and yet the in-
habitants adhered to the old road, though not only
longer, but extremely bad. The merchants of Bristol
have an excellent and commodious Exchange, but they
always meet in the street. There is hardly any con-
venience of life, or any notion of utility or beauty, which
may not be entirely changed by habit ; it is needless to
multiply the instances."

When ideas are united together in consequence of
their having been previously joined by some accident,
we call it association. There are various kinds of asso-
ciations ; and it may, perhaps, render what I am going
to say more clear, if I recapitulate a few of the different
kinds of association. One idea may be associated to
another idea ; the lowing of a cow may, in my mind, be
constantly united with the idea of a green field. 2dly.
An idea and a feeling may be constantly associated to-
gether. Peter, the Wild Boy, as Lord Monboddo in-
forms us, could never bear the sight of an apothecary ;
it threw him into the most violent fits of rage : a prac-
titioner had once given him so very nauseous a draught,
that he never afterward forgot it, and could with the
utmost difficulty be restrained from flying at any of the
faculty that came within his reach.

In the like manner, joy, or any other passion, may
suggest ideas. A good father, when he is visiting any
beautiful country, or partaking of any amusement, may
wish that his wife and children were there to partici-
pate in his satisfaction. Here the feeling of joy, intro-
duces the idea of his family ; and this, in a benevolent
mind, may grow into an association.

A state of body may be associated with an idea. A
man who had been very often to the high northern
latitudes, might very possibly associate the idea of
whales and bears with the feeling of cold ; or an East
Indian might associate a state of heat with the idea of
his white cotton dress, or any of the peculiar habits or
objects of his country.

A state of body might be associated with a passion ;
cold might always produce joy in a Norwegian, if it
reminded him of the scenes where he had passed a happy

364 LECTURE XXVI.

infancy ; or heat would produce unhappiness in a man
who had been confined three or four years in the prisons
of Seringapatam, and who had suffered dreadfully in
such a situation from the ardor of the climate. Now,
when all these conjunctions of ideas, feelings, and states
of body, are confined merely to the intellect, they pass
under the name of association : but whenever we begin
to act in a customary manner, whenever any outward
observable action becomes a member of the series, there,
we begin to use the word habit.

If a person, by accident, had lived with a great num-
ber of snuff-takers, and had been accustomed to perceive
that in any little pause of conversation, they all took
out their snuff-boxes, the silence would immediately pro-
duce the idea of snuff, — and this we should call associa-
tion of ideas ; but if he were a snuff-taker himself, the
silence would probably animate him to a pinch, — and
this we should call habit. Whatever passes in the mind,
only in consequence of custom or repetition, is associa-
tion : where there is outward action, it is habit. There
is no use whatever in the two names : they are, on the
contrary, an evil ; because they multiply names without
multiplying ideas ; but the reason is, that the effects of
habit have long been observed, because every one
notices actions. It is not above a century since asso-
ciation has been thought of, or much attended to, be-
cause it is very difficult to trace and to describe the
operations of the mind.

Habits may be divided into active and passive ; — those
things which we do by an act of the will, and those
things which we suffer by the agency of some external
power. I begin with the active habits ; and, after stat-
ing a few of the most familiar of them, I will shortly
analyze the examples, in order to show that they are
merely referable to association. It may be as well, per-
haps, to give a specimen of the life of a man whose ex-
istence was, at last, entirely dependent upon the habits
he had contracted : it is a fair picture of the dominion
which habit establishes over us, at the close of life.
" The professed rule of Mr. Hobbes," says Dr. White
Kennet, in his Memoirs of the Cavendish Family, " was

ON HABIT. 365

to dedicate the morning to exercise, and the evening to
study. At his first rising, he walked out, and climbed
up a hill : if the weather was not dry, he made a point
of fatiguing himself within doors, so as to perspire ; re-
marking constantly, that an old man had more moisture
than heat ; and by such motion, heat was to be ac-
quired, and moisture expelled. After this, the philoso-
pher took a very comfortable breakfast, and then went
round the lodgings to wait upon the earl, the countess,
the children, and any considerable strangers ; paying
some short addresses to all of them. He kept these
rounds till about twelve o'clock, when he had a little
dinner provided for him, which he eat always by him-
self, without ceremony. Soon after dinner, he retired
to his study, and had his candle, with ten or twelve pipes
of tobacco, laid by him ; then, shutting the door, he fell
to smoking, thinking, and writing, for several hours. He
could never endure to be left in an empty house ; when-
ever the earl removed, he would go along with him, even
to his last stage, from Chatsworth to Hardwick. This
was the constant tenor of his life, from which he never
varied, no, not a moment, nor an atom."

This is the picture of a man whose life appears to
have been entirely regulated by the past; who did a
thing because he had done it; who, so far as bodily
actions were concerned, could hardly be said to have
any fresh motives ; but was impelled by one regular set
of volitions, constantly recurring at fixed periods. Now,
take any one of his habits, and examine its progress ; it
will afford a natural history of this law of the mind, and
will show what circumstances in that law are most
worthy of observation.

He smoked : how did this begin ? It might have
begun any how. He w T as staying, perhaps, at some
house where smoking was in fashion, and began to smoke
out of compliance with the humors of other persons. At
first, he thought it unpleasant ; and as all the expirations
and inspirations were new, and difficult, it required con-
siderable attention ; and at the close of the evening he
could have distinctly recollected, if he had tried to do so,
that his mind had been employed in thinking how he

366 LECTURE XXVI.

was to manage and manoeuver the pipe. The practice
goes on ; the disgust vanishes ; much less attention is
necessary to smoke well : in a few days the association
is formed ; the moment the cloth is taken away after
supper, the idea of smoking occurs : if any accident
happen to prevent it, a slight pain is felt in consequence ;
it seems as if things did not go on in their regular track,
and some confusion had crept into the arrangements of
the evening. As the association goes on, it gathers
strength from the circumstances connected with it ;
from the mirth and conversation with which it is joined :
at last, after a lapse of years, we see the philosopher of
Malmsbury advanced from one, to one dozen of pipes ;
so perfect in all the tactics of a smoker, so dexterous in
all the manual of his dirty recreation, that he would fill,
light, and smoke out his pipe, without the slightest
remembrance of what he had been doing, or the most
minute interruption to any immoral, irreligious, or un-
mathematical track of thought, in which he happened to
be engaged : but we must not forget, that though his
amusement occupied him so little, and was passed over
with such a small share of his attention, the want of it
would have occupied him so much, that he could have
done nothing without it ; all his speculations would have
been at an end, and without his twelve pipes he might
have been a friend to devotion, to freedom, or any thing
else which, in the customary tenor of his thoughts, he
certainly was not. The phenomena observable here are,
that the physical taste lost its effect; that which was
nauseous, ceased to be so. Next, the habit began with
a considerable difficulty of bodily action, and with a full
attention of the mind to what was passing. It was not
easy to smoke, and the philosopher was compelled to be
careful, in order to do it properly ; but as the habit
increased, he indulged in it with such little attention of
mind or exertion of body, that he did it without knowing
he did it. Lastly, any interruption of the habit would
have occasioned to him the greatest uneasiness. As
these are the circumstances observable in all habits,
they will each require and deserve some consideration.
1st. It appears to be a general law, that habit diminishes

ON HABIT. 367

physical sensibility : whatever affects any organ of the
body, affects it less by repetition. Brandy is begun
in tea-spoons ; but the effect is so soon lost, that a more
generous and expanded vehicle is very soon had recourse
to : the same heat to the stomach, and the same intoxica-
tion to the head, can not be produced by the same
quantity of the liquor. So with perfumes ; wear scented
powder, and in a month you will cease to perceive it.
Habituate yourself to cold or to heat, and they cease to
affect you. Eat Cayenne pepper, and you will find it
perpetually necessary to increase the quantity, in order
to produce the effect. " My perfumed doublet," says
Montaigne, " gratifies my own smelling at first, as well as
that of others ; but after I have worn it three or four
days together, I no more perceive it : but it is yet more
strange, that custom, notwithstanding the long inter-
missions, and intervals, should yet have the power to
unite and establish the effect of its impressions upon our
senses, as is manifest in those who live near to steeples
and the frequent noise of bells. I myself lie at home in
a tower, where every morning and evening a very great
bell rings out the Ave Maria, the noise of which shakes
my very tower, and at first seemed insupportable to me ;
but having now a good while kept that lodging, I am so
used to it, that I hear it without any manner of offense,
and often without awaking at it. Plato reprehends a
boy for playing at some childish game : ' Thou reprovest
me,' says the boy, ' for a very little thing.' ' Custom/
replied Plato, 'is no little thing.' And he was in the
right ; for I find that our greatest vices derive their first
propensity from our most tender infancy, and that our
principal education depends upon the nurse."*

In all these cases, the sensibility of the different parts
of the body is diminished by repetition ; and the same
substances applied to them, can not produce the same
effects. The habit, it should be observed, does not act
by individual substances, but often by classes : if you
have accustomed yourself to opium, all soporific drugs
have less effect upon you ; if to one species of wine, you

* Montaigne, vol. i. p. 131.

368 LECTURE XXVI.

are capable of bearing a greater quantity of any other :
the sensibility of the body is not only diminished toward
that object, but toward many others similar to it ;
chiefly, however, toward the object upon which the
habit was founded. There are some facts, which do not,
at the first view, appear to fall in with this doctrine. A
taster of wines increases in his power of discrimination.
A man accustomed to judge of the fineness of cloths by
feeling them, feels them with more accuracy from prac-
tice. A blind man, from mere habit, improves so
astonishingly in the power of touch, that his nicety, in
this respect, is hardly to be credited by a person en-
dowed with sight. Whence comes it, if habit lessens
bodily sensibility, that habit increases it in these in-
stances ? My answer is, that it is not habit which in-
creases the sensibility in these instances ; that the sensi-
bility is actually diminished ; and better judgments
made, with impaired sensibility, and increased attention,
than others make with more sensibility and less atten-
tion. The man who has been rubbing cloths all his life-
time between his finger and thumb, has most probably
not such an acute feeling as I have, who have made no
such use of my finger and thumb ; but he has a fixed and
lively attention to what feeling he has, and he knows the
quality of cloth, of which that feeling is the indication.
In all feeling, where attention is not concerned, he is
just like every one else : heat affects him less if he has
been exposed to it frequently ; so does cold : in his own
particular art he does not deviate from the general law
of diminished sensibility ; but counteracts that law, by
his great increase of attention. This rule of the diminu-
tion of sensibility by habit, includes, of course, pleasure
as well as pain : nothing which we eat or drink con-
stantly, can remain either pleasant or painful ; repetition
infallibly diminishes both the pleasure and the pain. If
the common part of our diet is not originally insipid, — as
bread or water, — it becomes uninteresting, and no notice
is taken of the flavor, — as is the case with salt. Tastes
that are luscious, repetition not only destroys, but con-
verts into disgusts. The habits of mankind are not so
frequently formed upon these tastes, as they are upon

UN HABIT. 369

others, slightly disagreeable at their origin ; as coffee,
olives, port wine, and tobacco : none of these are agreea-
ble in their origin. The reason of this is, perhaps, rather
moral than physical. In the luscious taste you set off
from a pleasure, which becomes every day less and less,
and at last terminates in a disgust. This is a good
reason why you should stop. In the case of the olives
and the coffee, you set off with a slight disgust, and go
on to a negative state, or slight pleasure : and the reason
why you encounter the first disgust, is fashion, or
health ; or some use which you propose to derive from
the disgustful object : thus, coffee clears the head, olives
provoke to the use of wine, and so on. Hitherto I have
endeavored to show the effect of habit on those pleasures
and pains which have the body for their cause ; and that
effect appears to be, a diminution of every kind of
sensibility. The next subject for consideration will be,
whether habit weakens our passive impressions, where
the body is not concerned ; that is, whether because we
have felt a passion, we are less likely to feel it again;
that there is a less proneness to that kind of sensibility,
than there was before ? The general rule is in the
affirmative, — that habit strengthens our active determina-
tions, while it weakens our passive impressions : this, I
say, is the general rule ; I suppose it is the true one ;
but as I can not reconcile innumerable cases to that rule,
I shall very frankly, but at the same time in all humility,
avow my dissent. If this rule were true, it would
follow that a man is less liable to feel the passion of
anger again, in proportion as he has felt it often before.
This man is a very irritable man ; why so ? because we
have never seen him in a passion ; — but here is another
man, whom you may trust with the utmost impunity ;
we have beheld him in such violent and such frequent
fits of anger, that we are convinced he is the most
peaceable man in the world. Habit weakens passive
impressions, and previous irritation must therefore be
the best security for the absence of all irritable feeling.
If this rule were true, the best method of teaching a child
good-temper, would be to irritate him as much as possi-
ble. He might be cured of avarice by being taught to

a*

370 LECTURE XXVI.

hoard ; rendered benevolent by being indulged in malice ;
and cured of every vice, to the practice of which he had
been diligently trained.

Take fear ; there is a certain degree, at least, of that
passion, which does not diminish the passive impression ;
he who has been once heartily frightened by a great dog
flying at him, is not likely, for any thing I can see, to be
the less alarmed if he is attacked by a bull the following
day, — but rather the more. To have slept in a house
which caught fire, — to have run a narrow risk for life by
the fall of a horse, — would not improve the confidence
of a horseman, nor add to the soundness of sleep. Fear
seems to increase the liability to fear, rather than to di-
minish it. What has led to a contrary opinion, seems to
be this, — that we become less afraid of the same object,
or same class of objects. The first time 1 make a voy-
age to the West Indies, I am afraid ; the tenth time, I am
not ; — why ? not because my sensibility is blunted, but
because my reason is instructed : I perceive there are
much greater resources in skill and science, than I im-
agined ; that the ship can ride with safety over those
monstrous waves which at first bid fair to destroy ; that
an unctuous and weather-beaten personage, by turning a
wheel near him, can guide the prodigious animal, in
whose inside I am sailing, with the most unerring pre-
cision. It is not that I meet the same danger better, but
that I have found out it is a much less danger. In al-
most all the instances where men encounter those perils
to which they are accustomed, with greater resolution
than at first, it is because they have found out new re-
sources and methods, by which they may be opposed ;
or. because experience convinces them, the danger itself,
independently of all methods of obviating it, was not so
great as they had begun with supposing. Compassion is
in favor of the rule ; for it is always worn out where it is
frequently exercised. It is quite impossible that a sur-
geon can feel much at an operation, — that a bookseller
can have any very strong compassion for authors, — or
that an overseer of the poor, who lives in the midst of
misery, can care for it in a very lively manner. This is
true in such extreme cases; but then, again, a certain

ON HABIT. 371

degree of exercise rather increases the passion than
diminishes it ; for a man who had carefully stifled every
emotion of compassion for half his life, would be ten
times more unfeeling than he who had been over-stimu-
lated by the too frequent contemplation of wretchedness.
So that this fact, respecting compassion, contradicts the
rule, as much as the other confirms it. Envy is perpet-
ually and uniformly increased by habit ; so is jealousy :
by all that we have indulged in these two feelings, ex-
actly in the same proportion are we likely to be affected
by them again. So that I really can not comprehend
how the rule can be true, stated in so very general a
manner. Some passions are increased by habit, others
are decreased by habit ; others increased up to a certain
point, then decreased. So that, in fact, there is no gen-
eral rule about the matter ; and the effect of habit must
be learned in each particular passion. It seems as if the
rule had been taken from the organs of the body, and
applied to the passions of the mind. Mr. Stewart's prin-
cipal inferences are all taken from the body ; nor does
he seem to doubt, but that they both follow the same
law : —

" I shall have occasion afterward to show, in treating
of our moral powers, that experience diminishes the in-
fluence of passive impressions on the mind, but strength-
ens our active principles. A course of debauchery dead-
ens the sense of pleasure, but increases the desire of
gratification. An immoderate use of strong liquors de-
stroys the sensibility of the palate, but strengthens the
habit of intemperance. The enjoyments we derive from
any favorite pursuit, gradually decay as we advance in
years : and yet we continue to prosecute our favorite
pursuits with increasing steadiness and vigor.

" On these two laws of our nature is founded our ca-
pacity of moral improvement. In proportion as we are
accustomed to obey our sense of duty, the influence of
the temptation to vice is diminished ; while at the same
time, our habit of virtuous conduct is confirmed. How
many passive impressions, for instance, must be over-
come, before the virtue of beneficence can exert itself
uniformly and habitually! How many circumstances

372 LECTURE XXVI.

are there in the distresses of others, which have a ten-
dency to alienate our hearts from them, and which
prompt us to withdraw from the sight of the miserable !
The impressions we receive from these, are unfavorable
to virtue : their force, however, every day diminishes ;
and it may, perhaps, by perseverance, be wholly destroy-
ed. It is thus that the character of the beneficent man
is formed. The passive impressions which he felt origi-
nally, and which counteracted his sense of duty, have
lost their influence, and a habit of beneficence is become
a part of his nature."*

It is clear from this passage, that Mr. Stewart con-
ceives the same rule to obtain respecting the feelings of
the body, and the feelings of the mind. The doctrine
itself, he avows himself to have taken from Butler : it
may be found in the 121st page of his " Analogy.' It
may very likely be true ; and in dissenting from such
truly great authorities, I am only stating the nature and
extent of my own ignorance : but it is better to do this
candidly at once, than to subscribe to opinions, which,
after all the attention I am capable of giving to them,
appear to me to be wrong.

I remarked in my picture of Hobbes and his smoking,
the pain the philosopher would have experienced if any
circumstance had interrupted his habit. A very curious
part of habit, — that though we feel no pleasure in doing
the thing, we feel a great pain from not doing it : and
the pain is not infrequently felt, before the cause is as-
certained ; you don't feel as you have been accustomed
to feel ; and, after some time, perceive that somebody is
missing, whom you have been accustomed to see, or
somebody or something present, which you have not been
accustomed to see, — that you have left some insignifi-
cant thing behind you, which you always carried with
you : the habitual current of your thoughts and actions
has been interrupted, and you are awakened by the pain
of that interruption, to examine into the cause.

Habit uniformly and constantly strengthens all our
active exertions : whatever we do often, we become

* Stewart's Elements, p. 525.

ON HABIT. 373

more and more apt to do. A snuff-taker begins with a
pinch of snuff per day, and ends with a pound or two
every month. Swearing begins in anger; it ends by
mingling itself with ordinary conversation. Such-like
instances are of too common notoriety to need that they
be adduced ; but, as I before observed, at the very time
that the tendency to do the thing is every day increas-
ing, the pleasure resulting from it is, by the blunted sen-
sibility of the bodily organ, diminished ; and the desire is
irresistible, though the gratification is nothing. There
is rather an entertaining example of this in Fielding's
" Life of Jonathan Wild," in that scene where he is
represented as playing at cards with the Count, a pro-
fessed gambler. "Such," says Mr. Fielding, "was the
power of habit over the minds of these illustrious per-
sons, that Mr. Wild could not keep his hands out of the
Count's pockets, though he knew they were empty ; nor
could the Count abstain from palming a card, though he
was well aware Mr. Wild had no money to pay him."

No reason that I know of, can be given, why the
habit of having done a thing, should increase the ten-
dency to do it : all reason stops at this point, — it is not
possible to explain it. The pain annexed to the inter-
ruption of the habit is the means by which obedience to
the law is secured. Nature is too good a legislator to
pass any act without annexing a smart penalty to the
violation of it.

There remains to notice the very little attention of
mind, and the very little bodily exertion, with which all
habitual actions are performed. A boy, at his first be-
ginning to learn arithmetic, adds together a column of
figures with the greatest difficulty, and with the greatest
uncertainty : an expert arithmetician adds up the long-
est sum with the most unerring precision, and with as
much rapidity almost as is required to advance his hand
from the bottom to the top of the page.

Montaigne says, in his chapter on " Custom and Law,"
" I saw the other day, at my own house, a little fellow
who came to show himself for money, a native of Nantes,
born without arms, who has so well taught his feet to
perform the services his hands should have done him,

374 LECTURE XXVI.

that indeed they have half forgot their natural office, and
the use for which they were designed ; the fellow, too,
calls them his hands, and we may allow him to do so,
for with them he cuts any thing, charges and discharges
a pistol, threads a needle, sews, writes, and puts off his
hat, combs his head, plays at cards and dice, and all this
w r ith as much dexterity as any other could do who had
more and more proper limbs to assist him ; and the
money I gave him, he carried away in his foot, as we do
in our hand. I have seen another, who, being yet a
boy, flourished a two-handed sword, and (if I may so
say) handled a halberd, with the mere motions and writh-
ings of his neck and shoulders, for want of hands ; toss-
ed them into the air, and caught them again ; darted a
dagger ; and cracked a whip, as well as any coachman
in France."*

Every one, except Dr. Crotch, must remember the
difficulty with which they first learned music. The
correspondence between the note on the piano-forte and
the note in the book was the first thing to be ascertain-
ed ; then, that note is to be struck with a particular
finger, with a particular degree of velocity ; and if she
should sing at the same time, all these are to be accom-
panied with certain inflections of the voice. The diffi-
culty with which all this is done, the blunders which are
made, and the slowness of the progress that is made at
first, there can be no occasion I should describe, as there
are so many here who must have felt it. At last, such
is the astonishing facility acquired by habit, that there
are many persons who will sit down to a glee which
they have never seen before, play the bass with one
hand, the treble with the other, and sing the third part ;
that is, read three different languages, and perform
three different sets of actions at the same time : and
this, with such little effort of faculty or of finger, that they
shall have plenty of leisure to observe who comes in
and goes out ; who is dressed ill, who well ; and to pursue
the usual train of thought, which passes in our minds
on such occasions : and though it be absolutely neces-
sary that each musical note, and each key of the piano-

* Montaigne, vol. i. p. 133.

ON HABIT. 375

forte, must have been thought of by such a musician
during the performance, they have passed through the
mind with so much ease and rapidity, that it is impos-
sible, or at least exceedingly difficult, to recall any of
them. The reason of this astonishing facility, is partly
to be explained by bodily, partly by mental causes. It
proceeds from the strengthened association between the
sign, and the thing signified : we read music with greater
ease, and, the very instant we look at the note, and the
musical line on which it is placed, know immediately to
what part of the piano-forte the finger is to be carried.
The other cause is merely a bodily cause : the actions
of the fingers become associated together ; and one fin-
ger having followed the other in a certain direction, fol-
lows it ever after with much more ease. To shake on
the piano-forte is extremely difficult to beginners. How-
ever desirous any one may be of moving these two
fingers rapidly, the muscles obey the decision of the will
will with extreme difficulty; but when the respective
motions of the two fingers are completely associated, so
slight a determination of the will produces the desired
effect, that it becomes difficult to recollect, the very mo-
ment after, that we have thought any thing about the
matter. Just so in learning to walk, or in grown-up
persons learning to skate ; it requires a specific resolu-
tion to put one leg before another. A skater stands
tottering and trembling in his slippery career ; and when
he has resolved which leg he will move the next, is obey-
ed by that leg in a very awkward, reluctant, and mu-
tinous manner, — the very leg which, when it has ac-
quired a great number of associated strains and postures,
is to gain its master deathless reputation as a flying
Mercury, and render him the envy and glory of the
Serpentine.

It is impossible not to perceive in this analysis, which
I have gone through, of the nature of habit, that power-
ful effect which it must exercise upon human happiness,
by connecting the future with the present, and exposing
us to do again that which we have already done. If
we wish to know who is the most degraded, and the
most wretched, of human beings ; — if it be any object

376 LECTURE XXVI.

of curiosity in moral science, to gage the dimensions
of wretchedness, and to see how deep the miseries of
man can reach ; — if this be any object of curiosity, look
for a man who has practiced a vice so long, that he
curses it and clings to it ; that he pursues it, because
he feels a great law of his nature driving him on toward
it ; but, reaching it, knows that it will gnaw his heart,
and tear his vitals, and make him roll himself in the dust
with anguish. Say every thing for vice which you can
say, — magnify any pleasure as much as you please, but
don't believe you can keep it ; don't believe you have
any secret for sending on quicker the sluggish blood, and
for refreshing the faded nerve. Nero and Caligula, and
all those who have had the vices and the riches of the
world at their command, have never been able to do
this. Yet you will not quit what you do not love ; and
you will linger on over the putrid fragments, and the
nauseous carrion, after the blood, and the taste, and the
sweetness are vanished away. But the wise toil, and
the true glory of life, is, to turn all these provisions of
nature — all these great laws of the mind — to good ; and
to seize hold of the power of habit, for fixing and secur-
ing virtue ; for if the difficulties with which we begin,
were always to continue, we might all cry out with
Brutus, — " I have followed thee, O Virtue ! as a real
thing, and thou art but a name !" But the state which
repays us, is that habitual virtue, which makes it as
natural to a man to act right, as to breathe ; which so
incorporates goodness with the system, that pure thoughts
are conceived without study, and just actions performed
without effort : as it is the perfection of health, when
every bodily organ acts without exciting attention ;
when the heart beats, and the lungs play, and the pulses
flow, without reminding us that the mechanism of life is
at work. So is it with the beauty of moral life ! when
man is just, and generous, and good, without knowing
that he is practicing any virtue, or overcoming any diffi-
culty : and the truly happy man, is he, who, at the close
of a long life, has so changed his original nature, that he
feels it an effort to do wrong ; and a mere compliance with
habit, to perform every great and sacred duty of life.

LECTURE XXVII

OX HABIT.— PART II.

Before I proceed upon my present Lecture, I beg
leave, in a very few words, to bring to your recollection
the topics which I have dwelt upon in my last.

My first object was to show that habit was to action,
what association is to thought ; or, in other words, that
it is associated action. I then divided habits into active,
and passive : those things which we are prone to do,
because we have done them ; and those things which we
are prone to suffer, because we have suffered them. In
those passive impressions, produced upon the mind
through the body, I endeavored to show that the sensi-
bility of the bodily organ was materially impaired by
repetition, but that this rule was by no means to be ex-
tended to the affections ; that it was not generally true
that they were weakened by habit. I noticed the pain
consequent upon the interruption of habit ; the uniform
increase of active habits ; and lastly, the diminished atten-
tion of mind; which latter circumstance I attributed,
partly to the strengthened association of ideas, partly to
the improved association of actions. This was the sub-
stance of my last Lecture ; and I now go on to make
those additional observations on habit, which I had not
then time to comprehend in the discussion.

It has very often been asked when a habit begins to
exist. There must be a period in its formation, when
custom can have little or no influence, and when we
have nothing but a temporary and casual motive for the
performance of the action. When is the action habit-
ual ? — when not ? What is the delicate and discrimi-
nating circumstance which decides you to call that mode

378 LECTURE XXVII.

of acting a habit ? Nothing, for instance, is more com-
mon than to see persons beating the ground with their
feet in any moment of vacancy of mind ; and it easily
degenerates into a habit : the first or second time after
it is done, it can not be called a habit ; is it so the tenth
time? or when can the habit be fairly said to have
established itself? It does not, I confess, appear to me
to be by any means very difficult to answer this ques-
tion. An active habit for any thing may be said to be
formed, when we feel either a difficulty in not doing it,
or a pain from its not being done ; and when the prin-
cipal cause for this pain, or difficulty, is, that we have
done the thing often before. For instance, to recur to
the previous example, you tap the floor with your foot ;
some one, who happens to be nervous, or indisposed, re-
quests you to abstain : you very readily comply ; and in
five minutes, when the prohibition is out of your mind,
begin again ; and so on, perhaps, for three or four times.
The proneness to do the thing, and the difficulty of not
doing it, are here clear indications that the connection
between the beating of the foot, and the vacant good-
humored feeling of mind, is not in you merely casual and
momentary, but that the one has the strongest disposition
to produce the other ; and the only cause that can be
alledged why they should be connected, is, that they have
been connected before. You see a person drinking out
of a particular mug or tumbler: — put another in its
place ; if they both do equally well, of course there is no
habit ; but if the tumbler be missed, and the other com-
plained of, it is clear that a habit is formed : there is a
connection between the act of drinking, and the idea of
that tumbler, which can not be separated without giving
pain. Who could drink tea out of a wine-glass, or beer
out of a tea-cup, or take up wine with a spoon ? The
displeasure that would ensue from separating the liquid
and the particular kind of vessel in which it had been
customarily conveyed, is a plain proof that the habit, in
each particular case, is formed. In the same manner
with passive habits. A passive habit may be said to be
formed when the passive impression can not be separated
without pain, or difficulty, from that which preceded it ;

ON HABIT. 379

and when the principal cause of this pain or difficulty,
is the mere circumstance of their having been connected.
A man is habitually peevish, — that is, in his mind ; the
little crosses and accidents of life are not overlooked,
but strongly associated with resentment : let him attempt
to separate them, — let him endeavor to take a good-
natured and forgiving view of human life ; it costs him
the greatest efforts, exposes him to the most mortifying
failures, and is only to be acquired, at last, by very mag-
nanimous resolution. The fish is not dressed to his
liking, or a turkey comes to table when he had set his
affections upon a goose. You immediately perceive a
great deal of ill-temper; and whatever reasons there
may be for hiding it, or whatever efforts may be made
to hide it, it is still very visible. You say this man is
habitually peevish, from the great difficulty he finds in
separating the accidents of life from the acute malevo-
lent feelings with which he has connected them ; and
for which difficulty, — as it is felt in a much less degree
by the average of men, — no other reason can be given,
than the previous indulgence of such sort of feelings.
Every one might feel a little peevish at the accidents of
life ; and a slight difficulty might be universally experi-
enced in attempting to check it ; but the degree of that
difficulty appears to be so much greater in such instances
as I have mentioned, that we determine without scruple
that they are to be referred to something more than the
mere original tendency of nature ; and that that some-
thing more, is habit.

The period of time in which a habit renews its action,
or (if I may be allowed the expression) the orbit of a
habit, is of very different dimensions. We may have a
habit of shrugging up the shoulders every half-hour ;
or, of eating three eggs every morning ; or, of dining at
a club once a month ; or, of going down to see a relation
once a year : but it is difficult to conceive any habit
forming itself for a period greater than a year. I can
easily conceive that a person who set off on every 1st of
June, to pay a visit, might have the force of habit added
to his other inducements, and go, partly because he
loved the persons, partly because he had done it before ;

380 LECTURE XXVII.

but is it easy to believe that there is a habit of doing
any thing every other year? or, how very ridiculous it
would sound for two persons to say, " We agreed a long
time ago to dine together every Bissextile, or leap-year,
and it is now grown into a perfect habit !" This limita-
tion of habits to the period of a year, — which I by no
means lay any great stress upon, but which has some
degree of truth in it, — depends somewhat upon the rev-
olution of names and appearances. To do any thing
the first day of a month, or on one particular day every
year, is to strengthen a habit by the recurrence of names
or seasons ; but if an action be performed every third or
fourth year, the same name and the same appearances
have occurred, without being connected with the same
deed, and therefore the habit is impaired.

The strength of habit depends partly upon the length
of its duration, partly upon the violence of the cause
which gave it birth. Whoever had seen any person
burned to death by accident, might probably acquire an
habitual dread of fire, and would certainly acquire it
very rapidly ; because the deep impression of the origi-
nal cause would multiply the number and increase the
strength of the associations. The famous Isaac Barrow,
the mathematician and divine, had an habitual dislike of
dogs, and it proceeded from the following cause : — He
was a very early riser ; and one morning, as he was
walking in the garden of a friend's house, with whom he
was staying, a fierce mastiff, that used to be chained all
day, and let loose all night, for the security of the house,
set upon him with the greatest fury. The doctor caught
him by the throat, threw him, and lay upon him ; and,
while he kept him down, considered what he should do
in that exigence. The account the Doctor gave of it to
his friends was, that he had once a mind to have killed
the dog; but he altered his resolution upon recollecting
that it would be unjust, since the dog only did his duty,
and he himself was to blame for rambling out so early.
At length he called out so loud, that he was heard by
some in the house, who came out and speedily separated
the mastiff and the mathematician. However, it is
added, that the adventure gave the doctor a strong ha-

ON HABIT. 381

bitual aversion for dogs : and I dare say, if the truth
were known, fixed in the dog's mind a still stronger
aversion to doctors. It may be questioned whether any
habits formed by the gradual accumulation of repeated
facts, ever equal in power these deep marks left in the
mind, by the rude and rapid inroads of passion.

No habit formed (if I may use the expression) against
the stream, can ever be so strong as one that goes with
it. It is natural to mankind to resent injuries ; I don't
say commendable, but natural: therefore, no habit of
commanding resentment is so secure of remaining, as a
habit of gratifying it. A habit of intemperance, is
stronger than a habit of temperance ; and whatever may
be the time for which habits are laid aside, they are
always more liable to be resumed, than any other train
of actions : the road may be stopped up, and overgrown
with brambles ; and another road of much greater con-
venience opened in a contrary direction ; but, in spite
of all this, there is a prodigious tendency to move in the
old track ; and we are very frequently never satisfied till
we get back to it.

Those persons are most liable to contract habits, either
good or bad, whose lives are the most monotonous, and
move on w r ith the most complete uniformity. He who
has lived in various countries, will have no national
habits ; in various parts of the same country, no pro-
vincial habits. If he have neVer been compelled to a
particular line of occupation, he will have no professional
habits ; and if he have not voluntarily sunk into a same-
ness of existence, if he have seen many different circum-
stances, and done many different things, it is probable
he will have no individual habits. Uniformity of occu-
pation, is the cause both of bodily, moral and intel-
lectual habits. It is very often easy enough to discover
a military man by the general air and style of his be-
havior : he has put on one look, and done one thing, so
often, that the habit sticks to him. There is a clerical
air as well as a military air, from the same causes. Ex-
actly in the same way, is there a style of understanding,
a love of contention, and a perpetual affectation of wit,
in lawyers, who have contracted the bad habits of their

362 LECTURE XXVII.

profession ; and unrivaled vigor, quickness, and temper,
in those who have availed themselves of the good. With
equal diversities of occupation, those persons are, per-
haps, the most likely to contract objectionable habits,
who are prevented, by any cause, from reviewing and
considering themselves ; as absent men, very profound
men, very busy men, very proud men. As bad habit
implies associated action not common to the world at
large, it will probably be most visible in those who
are not accustomed to compare themselves much with
others.

Men aware of the power of habit, escape its influence ;
and therefore, it is among the most trite principles of
education to discover the particular habits to which we
are exposed by situation and profession ; and, when they
are discovered, to resist them. Without any inten-
tional efforts to resist professional habits, they are un-
consciously resisted by the magnitude and variety of
some men's minds ; and by the liberal pursuits which
they contrive to connect with their professions. There
is an effect of custom and habit to which we are all ex-
tremely indebted, and that is, that it regulates every
thing which nothing else regulates, where there is no
propriety, and no duty, to be consulted. The refer-
ence is always to habit, — in dress, in ceremony, in
equipage, in all the circumstances of life where almost
any conduct would be virtuous, a compliance with cus-
tom is the only conduct that is wise, and a man of
sense is rather pleased that the public legislate for him
on points where choice would neither be easy nor use-
ful. It is a strong mark of a good understanding, to
allow custom an easy empire on these occasions. It
is a much surer mark of talent, that men should rise
above the influence of habit, and be better and greater
than that to which the circumstances of their lives, or
the character of their age, would appear to doom them.
This is the reason why we admire men, who, born in
poverty, and accustomed to objects of sense, have been
able to conceive the dignity, the value, and the pleasure
of intellectual gratification ; who, deviating from every
model they had seen, and guided only by their inward

ON HABIT. 383

light, have steadily, and successfully, pursued the path
of virtuous fame. By this subjugation of habitual
thoughts, and escape from habitual objects, Bacon the
friar, Czar Peter, Lord Verulam, and all great men, in
law and in arts, have preceded the ages in which they
lived, and become the beacons of future times. The
mass of men, say whatever is said, do whatever is done,
think whatever is thought, and can not easily conceive
any thing greater and better than what is already cre-
ated. But, in the grossest period of monastic ignorance,
Bacon saw that the whole art of war might be changed
by the invention of gunpowder ; the Czar pulled down
a nation habitually victorious, roused and elevated a
people habitually stupid and depressed : Lord Verulam
looked upon his own times with the same cool estrange-
ment from the influence of habit, as if he were con-
templating a nation of the ancient world ; and was so
little imposed upon by the imperfect philosophy which
then prevailed, that he effected that entire revolution in
physical reasoning, by which we are all benefited to the
present hour. Such victories over present objects, —
such power of reflecting, where attention is not stimu-
lated by novelties, — are generally great triumphs of the
human understanding, and decisive proofs of its vigor
and excellence, in every individual instance where they
are found. Whoever is learned in an ignorant age ;
whoever is liberal in a bigoted age ; whoever is temper-
ate and respectable in a licentious age ; whoever is ele-
gant and enlarged in his views, where his profession
chains him down to technical rules and narrow limits ;
whoever has gained any good which habit opposes, or
avoided any evil which habit might induce, — that man
has vindicated the dignity and the power of his mind, by
the fairest of all tests — by doing what the mass of man-
kind can not do.

There is no degree of disguise, or distortion, which
human nature may not be made to assume from habit ;
it grows in every direction in which it is trained, and ac-
commodates itself to every circumstance which caprice
or design places in its way. It is a plant with such va-
rious aptitudes, and such opposite propensities, that it

384 LECTURE XXVII.

flourishes in a hot-house, or the open air ; is terrestrial,
or aquatic ; parasitical, or independent ; looks well in
exposed situations, thrives in protected ones ; can bear
its own luxuriance, admits of amputation ; succeeds in
perfect liberty, and can submit to be bent down into any
of the forms of art : it is so flexible and ductile, so ac-
commodating and vivacious, that of two methods of
managing it — completely opposite — neither the one nor
the other need to be considered as mistaken and bad.
Not that habit can give any new principle ; but of those
numerous principles w 7 hich do exist in our nature, it en-
tirely determines the order and the force. The horror
of bodily pain is a very strong principle ; but an Amer-
ican chief invites it. At the very moment that his body
is burning, and his sinews snapping asunder in the flames,
he tells his murderers that they are quite ignorant of the
science of tormenting ; that if they were bound to the
stake instead of him, he would torment them with much
more ingenious and exquisite cruelty than they have em-
ployed against him : he never for an instant bewails his
fate, or seems to look upon it as extraordinary ; it is the
end that he has looked to habitually, and he has from his
earliest infancy reared up a fabric of magnanimous cour-
age to endure it. What feeling more powerful than the
love of life ! A Spartan soldier, however, combed his
hair, set up a song, and in a very few minutes was no
more. An Indian widow burns herself to death, from
etiquette. Who could imagine that men and women
would shut themselves up in monasteries, and nunneries,
living the absurd life which they do, in such sort of
places ? — yet, the greater part of nuns and friars, who
came over here, immediately shut out the daylight of
common sense, and fell to forming nunneries and monas-
teries again.

The Indian settlement in Paraguay, formed by the
Jesuits, is among the most curious victories of habit over
the ordinary propensities of nature. It presents the cu-
rious spectacle of several millions of human creatures
leading the life of school-boys ; all desire of power, all
love of property, swallowed up in a blind and habitual
obedience to the Jesuits. One village was exactly a

ON HABIT. 385

model for the manners and customs of another. At a cer-
tain hour, all the nation was put to work ; in the middle
of the day, they dined by ring of bell ; and in the same
way, were sent to bed by the curfew. It is an instance
quite equal, in point of singularity, to any thing that is
told of the power of habit among the Spartans. In like
manner, there is not a single principle of our nature,
which may not be cherished to the complete exclusion
and subjugation of the rest.

Such deeply-rooted habits have so much the air and ap-
pearance of nature, that many men have doubted wheth-
er it is not absurd to speak at all of the moral nature of
man ; whether what we call the trammels of the Chinese
and the Hindoo, are not as natural a state of existence
as the comparative liberty of thinking and acting enjoy-
ed in Europe. What is the fact with respect to these
former nations ? One or two of the principles of our
nature, has, by the help of education and religion, gain-
ed an ascendency over all the rest. The Turk does not
cultivate letters, and acquire knowledge. Why ? Not
because he does not feel that same principle of novelty
which has impelled us, but because other principles of
his nature have been unduly strengthened, to the de-
struction of that principle : his pride, as applied to the
Mohammedan religion ; his contempt, as applied to Euro-
peans : which makes him imagine that every thing worth
knowing is to be found in the Koran ; and which makes
him averse to receive instruction from those whom he
looks upon to be so far beneath him. A Hindoo is of
the same trade as his father : and so it has gone on for
centuries. Why ? Not because the son of a Hindoo
tradesman may not have talents and feelings to rouse
him to something better ; but because the whole force
of law and religion have been directed to cherish the
principles of imitation and obedience, to the exclusion
of all others. In the same manner, a sincere Quaker
does not fight ; — not because he wants the element of re-
sentment from nature, but because he has taken care to
choke and overlay it. Therefore, as all men acquire very
early the same active powers, and impelling principles,
it is fair to say that that people is in the most natural

R

38G LECTURE XXVII.

state, where all those principles are developed ; and
where one or two leading principles do not operate to
the complete exclusion and subjugation of the rest. A
Spartan, who cared nothing about his wife, or his chil-
dren, and merely thought of the more extended relation
of country, was not in a natural state of mind. The
principle was natural, but not natural in that degree. A
head is natural, but a disproportionate head is not.
Wherever any one of the few great principles of our na-
ture is missing, or wherever any one of them operates in
a whole people, to the exclusion of the rest, it is an abuse
of terms to speak of that as a state of nature. Outward
nature is an upright body, endowed with life and strength,
and capable of motion : there must be the hand for grasp-
ing, and the leg for moving, and the foot for support.
Inward nature is grief, joy, resentment, the love of pow-
er, the love of esteem, the love of possession, and all the
great feelings which I have been so long endeavoring to
describe : if the greater part of these are exhausted and
destroyed, the remnant may be nature, but it is nature
abridged in principle, and mutilated in form.

The mere body itself, independent of any influence of
mind, is acted on by habit. Opium, and every kind of
medicine, loses its effects by habit. The body of a
Russian is not injured by rolling in the snow, after he
comes out of a warm bath. So very much is the body
the creature of habit, that it not only must have all the
feelings it has been accustomed to, but have them pre-
cisely in the same order of time. Wine is drunk at
dinner, and tea at breakfast : they both agree perfectly
well with the body, taken in this order of time ; but
many delicate constitutions would be seriously indis-
posed by attempting to change the order of these habits :
for it is not enough to say, nature is accustomed to these
things ; Nature is so punctilious, that she has settled,
one thing must be done at one hour, and another at
another ; and you can not at first violate it with impu-
nity. There is no doubt but that, by degrees, a person
would accustom himself to walk for an hour in the open
air without either coat or waistcoat ; but if he had done
that for many years at a particular hour, he could not

ON HABIT. 387

change that hour with impunity : he might do so be-
tween nine and ten with safety, if that was his hour ;
but it does not at all follow, that he could do the same
thing between two and three. The body might have
prepared itself, and would have prepared itself, for an
exposure to unusual cold at the first hour, but by no
means be ready for it at the second. The degree to
which the power of habit may be carried in the body,
has hardly been ascertained. There are some very re-
markable instances of it, however, in birds. The eagle
and the hawk have been brought to live upon bread and
milk ; and the dove upon raw flesh : this, I believe, was
done by Spallanzani. In the same manner, we may
observe individuals of the vegetable tribe accommodate
themselves to different situations ; to soil, climate, and
the state of cultivation. These variations may be daily
seen, by examining the plant as it grows on the moun-
tains, in the valleys, in the garden, or the field ; or by
bringing it from a rude, uncultivated state, when it
sometimes lays aside its prickles, and changes the color
and structure of its flowers. The apple-trees which are
sent from England to New England, blossom at first too
early for the climate, and bear no fruit ; and it is only
after some years, that they conform themselves to their
new situation. The design of this accommodating prin-
ciple, is to fit both the plant and the animal for a more
extensive and varied range of existence. Habit has the
same effect in the history of man. It is by habit that he
is enabled to support himself in every diversity of situa-
tion, in which he is thrown by the ever-changing scene
of human life : he is neither surfeited by abundance, nor
exhausted by penury ; but contracts with a cottage, and
expands with his palace ; preserving, in either extreme,
that calm level of feeling to which habit at length re-
duces every human passion. The grief which convulses,
and threatens to destroy, — the wildest tumults of joy, —
are brought down to the common standard ; the fiercest
enemies embrace, the bitterest contentions cease ; every
deficiency supplied, every irregularity brought to order,
every elevation laid low, by the silent and unnoticed
operation of this great principle. It is, in fact, habit,

388 LECTURE XXVII.

which alone neutralizes the passions, and deadens their
stupendous powers.

" Ni faciat, maria ac terras ccelumque profundum
Quippe ferant rapidi secum verrantque per auras."

Without it, we should sink under the first emotion of
sorrow or of joy ; and it is only from the protecting in-
fluence of habit that we are safely intrusted with such
tremendous agents.

A beautiful effect of habit is, that it endows with pre-
ternatural strength every quality of the mind or heart
which it calls into more than ordinary action. If pro-
tection is wanted, men are ready, long habituated to the
fear of death. If gentleness and benevolence are wanted
to lessen the miseries of life, women are habitually gen-
tle and benevolent. If patient industry, you have it in
the laborer, and the mechanic. What but the power of
habit, has given to us the advantage of those fine legal
understandings, that have gradually formed the system
of law in this country ? How are our naval victories
gained, but by habitual character, skill, and courage ?
Whence the effusions of eloquence every day to be wit-
nessed in the senate, but by that intrepidity, self-posses-
sion, and command of words and images, which habit
only can confer ? Fresh, youthful, untaught nature can
never do such things as these. It is nature in its man-
hood, instructed by failure, fortified by precedent, con-
firmed by success, riveted by habit, and carried to a pitch
of glory, by intense adhesion to one object, which, with
all the primary efforts of its rude vigor, it never could
have reached ; diminishing the pleasure of vice, and
strengthening the habit of virtue.

These are the principal observations which I have to
make on the nature of habit ; and with them I conclude
my Lectures on the Passions.

I am conscious how very imperfectly I have treated
the subject : but it is of great difficulty ; one, in which
very little assistance is to be gained from books, and to
which, if ever I repeat these Lectures again — (as some
years hence it may most probably be my lot to do) — 1
may, perhaps, do more justice, than I have been able to

ON HABIT. 389

do at present. One principal object in my Lectures has
been perpetually to refer to the very simple and beau-
tiful origin of the passions, and to show, that however
mixed and disguised, they all take their rise from pleas-
ure and from pain. We are born with sensibility alone ;
and to that cause is every feeling of our nature to be
traced. The moment that Providence ordained man to
feel pleasure and pain from the objects which surrounded
him, and connected the impressions of his mind by asso-
ciation, at that moment the passions were created, and
the mind subjected to that variety of active principles,
by which it is at present impelled. That I have not
been doing a useless thing, and that it is important to
examine those active principles, and to throw all the
light which we can upon the theory of the passions, no
man of reflection will, I presume, be inclined to deny.
The passions are in morals, what motion is in physics :
they create, preserve, and animate ; and without them,
all would be silence and death. Avarice guides men
across the deserts of the ocean ; pride covers the earth
with trophies, and mausoleums, and pyramids ; love
turns men from their savage rudeness ; ambition shakes
the very foundations of kingdoms. By the love of glory,
weak nations swell into magnitude and strength. What-
ever there is of terrible, whatever there is of beautiful in
human events, all that shakes the soul to and fro, and
is remembered while thought and flesh cling together, —
all these have their origin from the passions. As it is
only in storms, and when their coming waters are driven
up into the air, that we catch a sight of the depths of
the sea, it is only in the season of perturbation that we
have a glimpse of the real internal nature of man. It is
then only, that the might of these eruptions shaking his
frame, dissipate all the feeble coverings of opinion, and
rend in pieces that cobweb veil, with which fashion hides
the feelings of the heart. It is then only that Nature
speaks her genuine feelings ; and, as at the last night of
Troy, when Venus illumined the darkness, iEneas saw
the gods themselves at work, — so may we, when the
blaze of passion is flung upon man's nature, mark in him

390 LECTURE XXVII.

the signs of a celestial origin, and tremble at the invisible
agents of God !

Look at great men in critical and perilous moments,
when every cold and little spirit is extinguished : their
passions always bring them out harmless ; and at the
very moment when they seem to perish, they emerge
into greater glory. Alexander, in the midst of his
mutinous soldiers ; Frederick of Prussia, combating
against the armies of three kingdoms ; Cortes, breaking
in pieces the Mexican empire : — their passions led all
these great men to fix their attention strongly upon the
objects of their desires ; they saw them under aspects
unknown to, and unseen by common men, and which
enabled them to conceive and execute those hardy en-
terprises, deemed rash and foolish, till their wisdom was
established by their success. It is in fact the great
passions alone which enable men to distinguish between
what is difficult and what is impossible : a distinction
always confounded by merely sensible men ; who do not
even suspect the existence of those means, which men
of genius employ to effect their object. It is only pas-
sion which gives a man that high enthusiasm for his
country, and makes him regard it as the only object
worthy of human attention ; — an enthusiasm, which to
common eyes appears madness and extravagance ; but
which always creates fresh powers of mind, and com-
monly insures their ultimate success. In fact, it is only
the great passions, which, tearing us away from the
seductions of indolence, endow us with that continuity
of attention, to which alone superiority of mind is at-
tached. It is to their passions, alone, under the provi-
dence of God, that nations must trust, when perils gather
thick about them, and their last moments seem to be at
hand. The history of the world shows us that men are
not to be counted by their numbers, but by the fire and
vigor of their passions ; by their deep sense of injury ;
by their memory of past glory ; by their' eagerness for
fresh fame ; by their clear and steady resolution of
ceasing to live, or of achieving a particular object, which,
when it is once formed, strikes off a load of manacles
and chains, and gives free space to all heavenly and

ON HABIT. 391

heroic feelings. All great and extraordinary actions
come from the heart. There are seasons in human
affairs, when qualities fit enough to conduct the com-
mon business of life, are feeble and useless ; and when
men must trust to emotion, for that safety which reason
at such times can never give. These are the feelings
which led the ten thousand over the Carduchian moun-
tains ; these are the feelings by which a handful of
Greeks broke in pieces the power of Persia : they have,
by turns, humbled Austria, reduced Spain; and in the
fens of the Dutch, and on the mountains of the Swiss,
defended the happiness, and revenged the oppressions, of
man ! God calls all the passions out in their keenness
and vigor, for the present safety of mankind. Anger,
and revenge, and the heroic mind, and a readiness to
suffer; — all the secret strength, all the invisible array,
of the feelings, — all that nature has reserved for the
great scenes of the world. For the usual hopes, and the
common aids of man, are all gone ! Kings have per-
ished, armies are subdued, nations moldered away!
Nothing remains, under God, but those passions which
have often proved the best ministers of His vengeance,
and the surest protectors of the world.

THE END

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A SYSTEM OF ANCIENT AND

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er operations of the army are sketched with the pen of an enlightened sol-
dier. — Literary World.

He appears to have made a faithful use of the materials in his hands.
The narrative bears the marks of diligent research, and is written with an
evident spirit of impartiality.— New York Tribune.

The narrative of the events of the war is admirably written, and dis-
plays great research. The descriptions of the various military movements
in the several battles are so clear that even those not acquainted with mil-
itary matters can readily understand each movement. — Evening Post.

The manner of the writer is such as gains the entire confidence of the
reader. He is manifestly a man of ability, and the literary execution of the
work is highly creditable to him. The book will have a wide circulation.
Many will read its calm and well-written pages, who have turned in dis-
gust from some of the blustering accounts that have heretofore been pub-
lished. — Neto York Observer.

The correct and lucid style of the author bears evident marks of caution,

and the general tone of the volumes is pleasing. — Southern Lit. Messenger.

\ The work is the most valuable publication on the subject. — Sartain's Mag.

\ The most complete and comprehensive work that has yet been published

| on the late war. — N. Y. Review.

The narrative is given with great fidelity. — Democratic Review.
> This work is destined to make a sensation. It is the first history of the
\ late war worthy of the name. — Philadelphia Saturday Evening Post.

\ HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK,

Nod itDork bg Jfatras.
DARK SCENES OF HISTORY.

B Y Gf. P. R. J A M E S, E S Q.

12mo, paper, 75 cents ; muslin, $1 00.

It was a happy thought to group together some of these darker pages of
history. The contrast cleanses the heart. We learn best to enjoy the state
of things under which we live. — Colburn's Neio Monthly.

He has shown great judgment in the selection of his topics, and handled
them with more than his usual facility and effect. Among the "Dark
Scenes" which he brings to light, are tbe histories of " Perkin Warbeck,"
"The Albigenses," " Wallenstein," "The last Days of the Templars."
They are portrayed with the rich coloring for which the author is distin-
guished, and will add to his reputation. — Tribune.

The reader will derive much valuable information from the thrilling nar-
ratives which are contained in this work. — Boston Daily Journal.

We question whether the cover of any book ever before enveloped such
a mass of startling and gigantic criminal transactions ; delineated, too, most
thrillingly, in the peculiar style of the author ; the lights like the brightest
sunbeams — the shadows black as Erebus. — Daily Times and Republic.

One of the most entertaining volumes which have issued from Mr. James's
prolific pen — using the word entertaining in its best sense. The author has
seized upon some of the most striking events of history, and, without de.
parting from fidelity of narrative, has thrown around them so much vivid
coloring and dramatic effect that the reader's attention never wearies, and
he receives pleasure and instruction from the same page. — Com. Advertiser,

This is a well- written book, contains a large amount of valuable historical
information, judiciously condensed, and will be read with great advantage
as well as absorbing interest. We predict for this publication an extensive
circulation. — Methodist Protestant.

This volume is at once interesting and instructive. — Baltimore American.

The topics embraced are very interesting ones. — Neto York Observer.

Many important facts are brought together in a clear and instructive man-
ner. — Presbyterian.

The author has set forth vice in its own colors, and has drawn some most
impressive lessons from the facts he records. We can testify of its absorb-
ing interest, and do not doubt that it will become popular. — Evangelist.

These are the compositions in which the author excels, combining histor.
ical information with critical acumen. The tragical descriptions are full of
force ; the entire work is worthy of the author's great popularity. — Lit. Gaz

HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK.

^ Nem fcPork on Spain.
GLIMPSES OF SPAIN;

OR, NOTES OF AN UNFINISHED TOUR IN 1847,

BY S. T. WALLIS, ESQ.

12mo, paper, 75 cents ; muslin, $1 00.

Its felicitous sketches, its piquancy of narrative, and accuracy of obser-
vation, we may venture to predict will give it a high position among the
best books of travel of the day, excellent as some of these have been of late
years. — Baltimore American.

We should be pleased if all travelers were as entertaining as Wallis, and
all " Notes" as racy and new as these " Glimpses of Spain." — Lit. American.

We venture to predict for this volume a very large share of public favor,
which we think it most fully deserves. * * * An agreeable and clever work.
We repeat that we rarely stumble on one of its kind that has afforded us
so much pleasure. — Albion.

These " Glimpses" do credit to the eye which saw and the pen which
describes them. Mr. Wallis treats of Spain and Spaniards as they are, not
as they are not. — Boston Post.

The author is an intelligent and well-read man, and tells his story in a
very animated manner. He is disposed to take a very favorable view of
Spanish character and manners, the effect of which is to render his book the
more interesting. — New York Observer.

A sensible, well-written, and highly entertaining volume, embodying ma-
tured and comprehensive views with interesting personal incident. — South-
ern Christian Advocate.

It furnishes a rich intellectual treat. — Methodist Protestant.

It is written with clearness, and in a most agreeable style, which famil-
iarizes, so to speak, the reader with the subject of which it treats, and car-
ries him on his journey as if he were really making it himself, so skillfully
and yet so artlessly is the narrative given. — Baltimore Patriot.

The book abounds with interest and amusement. — Freeman's Journal.

We like this book exceedingly. All the author says is full of sense, and
heart, and purpose. Of all the books we have ever read on Spain, commend
us to this one. — Christian Alliance.

It is characterized by a close observation of all material facts and inci-
dents, a liberal view of existing institutions, and a style easy, graceful, and
readable in a high degree.— Methodist Quarterly Review.

HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK.

Bi) tljc 3Uttl)or of "banitn fair."
THE HISTORY OF PENDENNIS:

HIS FORTUNES AND MISFORTUNES, HIS FRIENDS AND
HIS GREATEST ENEMY.

BY W. M. THACKERAY, ESQ.

jw^ftf) JHlustvatfons b£ tfje ^utijov.

IN SEVEN NUMBERS, 25 CENTS EACH, OR TWO VOLS. MUSLIN, $2 50.

As true to the life and as bitingly satirical as "Vanity Fair." — Lit. Mes.

Thackeray must take his stand at the head of the prose satirists, if not of
the novelists, of the day. No one describes the scenes and manners of so-
ciety with such curious felicity. — Washington Republic.

In satire he has had no superior since the days of Fielding. — Hold. Rev.

We recognize in " Pendennis" the able and vigorous intellect which
evinced so intimate a knowledge of life and such inimitable powers of por-
traiture in "Vanity Fair."— London Morning Herald.

Here is a book to drive away melancholy. It is by that most laughter-
moving writer of the age, Thackeray, and those who read it must laugh, be
they ever so melancholy. We recognize every where the pen of the author
of " Vanity Fair," and are by no means displeased with the acquaintance. —
Western Continent.

To all who have read "Vanity Fair" or "The Great Hoggarty Diamond,"
the very name of Thackeray is suggestive of the good things contained in
any book he may choose to write. Thackeray's sympathies are all health-
ful and invigorating ; he is the sworn enemy of all humbug and pretension,
and the good-humored but effective satire with which he assails them has
rendered him one of the most popular writers of the day. — JV. Bed. Mercury.

Replete with truthful delineations of character and sparkling with the
coruscations of wit and humor. — Commercial Advertiser.

No recent fiction seems to us to bear such intrinsic evidence of being drawn
from life. — Home Journal.

He (Thackeray) is caustic in satire, and at the same time witty and hu-
morous, original and instructive. Fielding led the way in English works
of fiction painted from nature ; and Dickens and Thackeray are worthy suc-
cessors of the great father of the English novel. — Baltimore American.

Thackeray pictures society in all its phases in a graphic, sarcastic, and yet
genial manner. — Transcript.

We cheerfully commend it to every man who would refresh his rceollec-
tions of his boyish freaks and fancies of love-making. — National Era.

HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK.

THE LITTLE SAYAGE.

BEING THE HISTORY OF A BOY LEFT ALONE ON AN UNINHABITED ISLAND.

BY CAPTAIN MARRYAT, R.N.

12mo, paper, 371 cents ; muslin, 50 cents.

No modern writer excels him in the art of mingling instruction with amuse-
ment. Whatever the subject may be, he is sure to render it interesting by
his lively and practical mode of treating it. — John Bull.

One of the most interesting of the literary productions of the late Captain
Marryat. — Bost.on Transcript.

Capt. Marryat's rare powers of story-telling appear here to as much ad-
vantage as in his celebrated sea novels. — Washington Republic.

A most instructive and at the same time entertaining and delightful story.
It will charm all our youthful readers by the simplicity and naturalness of
its incidents and the attractive style in which it is written, and it will well
repay the perusal of readers of the maturest age. — Western Continent.

THE WHALE AND HIS CAPTORS;

OR,
THE WHALEMAN'S ADVENTURES AND THE WHALE'S BIOG-
RAPHY, AS GATHERED ON THE HOMEWARD CRUISE
OF THE "COMMODORE PREBLE."

BY REV. HENRY T. CHEEYER.

WITH ENGRAVINGS. I81MO, MUSLIN, 60 CENTS.

Replete with incident and valuable information. — Yankee Nation.

Written in the lively and picturesque style of the author — its perusal
can not fail to both please and profit. — Southern Christian Advocate.

There is very much valuable information contained in a small compass.
Interspersed are glowing and graphic pictures of the ocean — its dangers,
its storms, its calms — and the peculiar habits of those that roam its depths.
It is a very readable and pleasant as well as profitable volume. — Alb. Atlas.

Since the issue of Dana's justly celebrated " Two Years before the Mast,"
we have read nothing of sea life and adventure so fresh, lively, and instruct-
ive as this beautiful little book, It is full of life, anecdote, facts, incident,
and character, and succeeds in keeping the reader intensely occupied with
the glories and wonders of the deep to the end. It is embellished with sev-
eral very fine engravings, which are full of instruction. — N. Y. Evangelist-

A most attractive work, both as a composition and for its pictorial inter-
est. — Albany Evening Journal. \

HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK

J

SHIRLEY: A TALE.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "JANE EIRE."

LIBRARY EDITION, 12MO, MUSLIN, $1 00. 8vO, PAPER, 37£ CENTS.

A book which, like its predecessor, indicates exquisite feeling, and very
great power of mind in the writer. — London Daily News.

The book embraces grand character, grand scenes, grand thoughts; it
proves, conclusively, that the writer is a wonderful creature, a phenomenon
of mind. — Boston Post.

It is strongly marked by the peculiar characteristics of " Jane Eyre," in-
dicating exquisite feeling and remarkable power of mind in the writer. —
Boston Rambler.

Very ably written, and interesting. — Philadelphia Sat. Evening Post.

The women in " Shirley" are marvelously real. — Albion.

There are scenes which for strength and delicacy of emotion are not trans-
cended in the range of'English fiction. — London Examiner.

There is a racy novelty in its style, in its minute analysis of character,
in its descriptions of natural scenery, and in its combinations of conflicting
passions. — Eclectic Review.

There is great ability in this work ; it is full of eloquence. — BeMley's Mis.

It is marked by originality of style, and displays command of language,
and ability at framing and developing a plot. — Literary American.

* * * But we must stop here with a general and hearty approval of the
book, which is as healthy in tone as it is pleasing in style. — N. Y. Mirror.

JANE EYRE ■ AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

EDITED BY CURRER BELL.

LIBRARY EDITION, 12M0, MUSLIN, $1 00. 8vo, PAPER, 25 CENTS.

Since the time when Scott was used to astonish the world no novel has
had such success or attracted so much attention. — Daily Times.

This novel has excited a deeper and more wide-spread interest than any
other book that has been issued from the press for years. — Brattle. Eagle.

From the first page to the last it is stamped with vitality. — W. Chronicle.

One of the most powerful domestic romances which have been published
for many years ; full of youthful vigor, of freshness and originality, of nervous
diction and consecrated interest. It is a book with a great heart in it. — Atlas.

The reading of such a book as this is a healthful exercise. — Tablet.

It is a book to make the heart beat, and to fill the eyes with tears. — Lon-
don Atlas.

Original, vigorous, edifying, and absorbingly interesting. — Jerrold's Paper.

HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK,

WORKS OF STERLING VALUE

RECENTLY PUBLISHED BY

MESSRS. HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK.

Comprising his Correspondence and other Papers, Official and Private, <fc.

With illustrative Portraits.

Neva, revised, and cheap edition. 12 vols. 8vo, Muslin. $1 50 per volume.

As historical records, Washington's letters are invaluable, delineating, as they do, more
minutely and more truthfully than any other sources, the particulars of our revolution. They
stand among the archives of our history, imperishable, being, in their truth and minuteness,
from the hand of one who knew the things whereof he wrote. — Buffalo Courier.

These volumes are replete with instruction. Every page serves to show how wise and good
a mau our great Washington was. If every man in our country would read these writings
carefully, they would infuse a portion of his patriotism into the present generation. — Albany
Evening Journal.

^vtBtotVB fgfetorg of the Conquest oi Jleru,

With a Preliminary View of the Civilization of the Incas.
With Portraits, Maps, <$-e. 2 vols. 8vo, Sheep extra, $4 50 ; Muslin, $4 00.

We can most conscientiously recommend this work as indispensable to complete that long
line of English histories which is gradually appropriating to itself the most important events
in the chronicles of mankind. — Quarterly Review, October, 1847.

The world's history contains no chapter more striking and attractive than that comprising
the narrative of Spanish conquest in the Americas. Teeming with interest to the historian
aud philosopher, to the lover of daring enterprise and marvelous adventure, it is full of fasci-
nation. Mr. Prescott has added to his well-merited reputation by his narrative of the Conr
quest of Peru.— Blackwood.

JJrcscott's f^istorg ot the Conquest ot J&epco,

With the Life of the Conqueror, Hernando Cortez, and a View of the Ancient

Mexican Civilization.

With Portrait and Maps. 3 vols. 8vo, Sheep extra, $6 75; Muslin, $6 00.

It abounds with sketches of scenery worthy of Scott, with battle-pieces rivaling those oi

Napier, with pictures of disaster and desolation scarcely less pathetic than those drawn by

Thucydides. Mr. Prescott appears to us to possess almost every qualification for his task.—

Edinburgh Review.

One of the most remarkable historical compositions that has appeared for a long time.—
Bibliotheque Universelle de Geneve.

$cescott>s i&istorg ttf jFertriuautr antr Xsafcella,

The Catholic.

With Portraits. 3 vols. 8vo, Sheep extra, $6 75 ; Muslin, $6 00.
It is by much the first historical work which America has as yet produced, and one that
leed hardly fear a comparison with any that has issued from the European press since this
century began. — Quarterly Review

Jlrescott's Eiosrajriiical antr Critical miscellanies.

With a finely-engraved Portrait. 8vo, Muslin. $2 00.
The essays embrace a variety of literary subjects, and treat of American, Spanish, French,
Italian, and English authors. All who love a light and pleasant style of observation thrown
over topics of universal interest will find enough here to afford them acceptable inibrmatioa
and rational pastime. — Literary Gazette.

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